


Reckoner

by Azertyrobaz



Series: Reckoner [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azertyrobaz/pseuds/Azertyrobaz
Summary: Modern AU. Mando comes across the Child after being sent by his gang to collect a mysterious asset. What had started as a simple enough job turns into a race against the clock when he realizes he's not the only one interested in the kid. Enemies become friends, and friends become enemies. Saving a kid has never felt so alien and so simple at the same time for Mando, who will do everything in his power to make sure history doesn't repeat itself. Even if it means sacrificing himself in the process.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Series: Reckoner [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676806
Comments: 125
Kudos: 194





	1. Reckoner

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to this fandom, but not the Star Wars universe. That being said, I only seem capable of writing AU stories, so this is what it is. I hope this still finds its public! Tropes and characters from the series will be there, but a few words of warning: some themes might not be for everyone. Although never graphic in my descriptions, gang related violence will be aplenty, as well as mentions of child abuse and drugs. The Mature rating is there for a reason.
> 
> The title and chapters (of which there should be around 10, already planned) are taken from the song Reckoner, by Radiohead.
> 
> Feel free to kudos and comment. :)

** Reckoner **

****

_Reckoner_

_You can’t take it with you_

_Dancing for your pleasure_

_You are not to blame for_

_Bittersweet distractors_

_Dare not speak his name_

_Dedicated to all human beings_

_Because we separate_

_Like ripples on a blank shore_

_In rainbows_

_Reckoner_

_Take me with you_

_Dedicated to all human beings_

(Radiohead, _In Rainbows_ )

The first thing that hit him was the smell. After all this time, it shouldn’t have surprised him – filth was everywhere, especially in his line of work. But it was more than that he realized, more than the result of simple neglect or poverty. It was despair, and it gave him pause. Surely such a place wouldn’t house the person he was looking for. His job was to get the asset out alive, so that the poor bastard could pay what he was due. With his life, more than likely, but that was above his pay-grade, and hopefully not something he would have to participate in.

Sometimes, he cared. But tonight, he didn’t. Tonight, he just wanted to get this over with, go home, and get some sleep. He wondered when he had stopped minding about the job. When he had become so desensitized. There was clearly a before and an after. But the before seemed to slip further and further away after each passing day doing what he did. It hadn’t been by choice at first, _oh no_ , quite the contrary. And yet, gradually, disgust had turned into habit. And his self-worth a distant memory.

Although, not just quite, he soon realized, when the smell in the air was supplanted by another sensation. A sound. One that every human being seemed to be automatically programmed to recognize and gravitate towards, half anxious, half determined – a baby’s cries.

He lowered his hands. His right one held a gun, and his left a torch, forming a makeshift cross to a God that had deserted him long ago. Because who in their right mind would leave a baby here? Probably a stupid question, as many of the people he dealt with were high on enough substances to make them forget just about anything. But a kid?

The job was supposed to be a simple one. Hit the place, find the guy, don’t rough him up too badly, and bring him to the boss. But he’d searched the tiny Inglewood house top to bottom already, and he was on his third sweep when he’d started hearing the cries. Mando was a lot of things, but he was no slouch at this. He _found_ people. He could map out any place instantly and flush out anyone in a matter of minutes. That thing had been ingrained in him early on, and only reinforced by his military training.

He turned towards the sound, and found a lump behind cardboard boxes he had discarded in his search as being neither interesting nor threatening. A lump consisting of a dirty brown blanket, dark curly hair, huge brown eyes, and a runny nose. His shoulders dropped. It was a kid, alright. No doubt about it now. He approached cautiously, holding the torch against his neck and re-holstering his gun behind his back. He’d done it subconsciously – surely if he had been in his right mind, he would have kept his weapon. How could he be certain this wasn’t some elaborate trick? But the brown eyes beckoned him, and the tears against the toddler’s cheeks shone brightly in the unforgiving light.

The torch in his left hand once more, he came closer to the bundle. The child was now hiccuping, he thought. It was hard to say, the thing was so small. Standing right above him, Mando could see that the kid himself was dirty. His hair matted and his hands filthy.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Said hands were now raised in his direction. That gave Mando pause. It was a show of trust. The kid wasn’t trying to protect himself, he was asking to be picked up in a sign so universal that even someone as clueless as him could decipher it. But why was this child trusting him? He could be anyone. He _was_ anyone. And yet the brown eyes seemed quite sure, and the cries had stopped.

So Mando did the only thing that made sense and picked the kid up, holding him gently by his sides, the torch now illuminating the ceiling. How old was he? One, two? It looked like a boy, but who knew. He was very bad at that kind of thing. In any case, the lump weighed nothing, even though the smelly diaper he was wearing probably made up for half its heft.

Brown met brown when they were at eye level and Mando was struck at how quiet and still the bundle with small hands and feet had become. He didn’t know how long the staring contest lasted but they were interrupted by a loud noise, coming from downstairs.

Someone had just entered the house.

Mando had no time to wonder whether it was his asset, the kid’s guardian or a burglar before he started hearing the stairs creaking under heavy feet.

 _Decisions, decisions_.

In the end, he made the only rational choice possible, and put the toddler back on the floor, although he was surprised to note that the decision had cost him. His first instinct had been to either hide with the kid or find another way to exit the place, bundle in tow.

_Snap out of it, Mando. You’ve come in here for a job. Focus on the kid later._

He quickly clicked his lamp off, and backed up against the wall, hoping the shadows would provide enough cover. That changed when the intruder decided to switch on the light in the room upon entering. Something Mando hadn’t done in favor of discretion. But the startled cry of the kid made sure he had become the sole focus of the mysterious arrival, and allowed Mando to quietly hide behind a ratty armchair.

The man – he could now see him better so there was no doubt – had come straight to the right room when entering the house. Either he knew that the kid was there, or he had been told. There was little doubt in Mando’s mind that the new guest wasn’t the kid’s father, if the balaclava he was wearing and the heavy duty gloves adorning his hands were any indication. He was a pro.

Mando prided himself of also being a pro, but he wasn’t wearing gloves. He’d been careful not to touch anything important by habit, but it just hadn’t been that kind of job. The kind of job where you didn’t want to leave your DNA lying around. Especially when his prints were so readily available to any cop who would start prodding.

The gloves were a dead giveaway, no pun intended. The man had come in to kill someone. And Mando hoped briefly that his asset would choose that moment to come out of his secret hideout and prove to him that it had simply been a case of a two-man bounty, but his pipe dream was unceremoniously crushed when the black-clad hitman approached the child and lowered his hand to grab at something in his pocket.

Mando didn’t give him the time to reach whatever it was, though. He propelled himself against his back and the element of surprise was enough to bring the bigger man down with a groan. Although he had good upper body strength and the muscles to show it, Mando knew as soon as he toppled his opponent that he would have to be creative if he wanted to keep the upper hand. His reaction had been automatic, but what he should have done was raising his own gun. He just wasn’t certain he would have had the time to fire before the other guy.

Mando rolled to the floor swiftly and avoided the first punch to his stomach, but not the second. He released a pained grunt and rolled again, his feet kicking almost blindly at the arm he could just see reaching for his pocket again. His opponent’s gun fell to the floor with a heavy thud, but Mando didn’t have the time to stand up before he was once more on the receiving end of a well-aimed punch directly in his face. He saw stars for a couple of seconds, then quickly encircled the other man’s knees from his prone position.

There was no choreography to this. Once they both found themselves on the ground, they both hit what they could. Sides, bellies, thighs, heads… The ultimate goal of the now hissing man – thanks to a strategically placed elbow – was to pick up his gun again. It wasn’t lying far, and Mando was at war with himself over whether he should do everything in his gradually diminishing power to prevent this, or to reach for his own weapon, which he could feel painfully digging at his back with every push. Once someone had a hold of a gun, it would be game over. Mando knew this. Just as well as he knew there was no way they could keep at this for very long. He was winded, in pain, and despite the rush of adrenaline, his ears were ringing. If he hadn't been getting his ass kicked, he would have taken a second to admire his adversary’s style.

Then the child suddenly screamed louder than his small body should have allowed him to. It was clear that they had both completely forgotten about the kid’s presence when they froze. But this gave Mando enough time to realize that he hadn’t come in just armed with a gun. His right boot, conveniently located above him in his attempt to push the heavier man off him, held his knife. And in a last, desperate move he reached out for it quickly, released the switchblade and sliced at the air, connecting with flesh.

Whatever people said about him, he never liked this part. Hearing someone drowning in their own blood was not, in any shape or form, a sound he liked hearing. Even when it was far from the first time.

Mando rolled away and stood up, avoiding most of the mess he’d made, and pointed the knife at the fallen man, although he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be standing up any time soon. After a full minute of silence, he finally put the knife back in his boot.

 _Silence._ But that couldn’t be right. Fearing he’d somehow harmed the kid who’d been screaming his little heart out only recently, Mando turned quickly in the direction of the last place he’d seen the brown eyed child. That is, the spot he’d always been. The toddler hadn’t moved. Not one inch. And when Mando came closer, he was welcomed by the same sight as before.

Small, dirty hands, reaching out for him.

Knowing in his heart that nothing would be stopping him now, Mando picked the kid up, stared at the inquiring eyes once more, and placed the dirty bundle against his chest. The small lump emitted a sigh, as if all was right with the world once more, and Mando’s ears started ringing again, but for a different reason. One he didn’t comprehend just yet. It was just instinct, he thought. To press the little face gently against his shoulder and hold him fast, for fear something terrible would happen if he didn’t.

Mando wasn’t sure how long he stood there, with one body on the ground slowly cooling down and another, far smaller, gently warming his side. But decisions had to be made. Always, decisions. He had to do something about the couple of ribs he was pretty sure were cracked if not broken on his right side, the cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding and his painful, throbbing wrist. But first he had to get out of there. What to do with the kid didn’t require a decision. It was obvious – the child was going wherever he was going.

Now once more focused on a single goal, Mando went to work quickly, the kid never leaving his left side. He switched out the light, hoping stupidly that it would be enough not to attract any more visitors (who knew, in this neighborhood?), picked up his torch again and went through the dead man’s pockets.

He didn’t find much, unsurprisingly. People wouldn’t find much if they were to go through his own pockets either. He’d left his phone, wallet, keys and anything that could be linked to him in the car outside, parked two blocks away in a side street. It was the same with this guy, except for one handwritten note and a distinctive tattoo on a heretofore hidden wrist. The number 13, clearly visible in a place where a pulse used to be.

“Shit,” Mando couldn’t help but utter.

 _La Eme_. This complicated things. A lot.

Mando breathed in deeply and pressed on, knowing that he would soon be out of time. More would come. More always came.

The note required more time to decipher. It was written in Spanish, which wasn’t a problem for Mando, but some words were difficult to read. He thought he recognized the address of the ramshackle Inglewood house he was kneeling in, then a few words were underlined. One that started with an M and might or might not have been his name and then two short words that didn’t require much speculation.

 _El niño_. The child.

Before he could start the flow of questions in his mind that wanted to reconcile what the Mexican Mafia wanted to do with the kid and what it meant if his name was indeed on the piece of paper, Mando stood up for the last time, and after a cursory look around the place (there was nothing that could be done now about his prints or the blood he’d shed), reassuring himself that the child was still securely pressed against his side, he exited the small house.

He kept a steady pace all the way to his car, his heart beating wildly. Had he been seen? Was he being followed? Were people looking out their window and watching him? He deeply regretted having parked so far, but never in a million years could he have imagined that he’d make the trip back with a toddler and not a protesting, if subdued, grown man.

Once inside his truck though, he was forced to stop and think. _Where to, now?_ The most obvious choice would be to go to his boss. And figure out with him why the _hell_ a rival gang was given the same address as him. And seemed to know a lot more about the asset he had been supposed to pick up.

Mando even reached for his phone, which he had kept hidden under his seat. But once faced with the blank, switched off screen, he hesitated. Calling was probably a bad idea. Especially if people from _La Eme_ had known where to find him. Someone or _something_ had snitched his location. He couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t being spied on. But driving to their current HQ was similarly rejected. If someone had been listening in on his conversations, then there was also a good chance he was being tailed. Their headquarters had to remain secret. The phone stayed off, and his keys in the ignition.

Sighing, he realized that the kid was still against his shoulder. Of course he was, he hadn’t moved him. But he’d also strangely gotten used to the weight against his side. And the smell, he thought with a shudder. That diaper desperately needed to be changed. The child must have felt miserable. And yet when he turned towards him again, he only read quiet curiosity in the big brown eyes. Not fear or apprehension. Mando wondered if the kid had been drugged, given how passive he was. But surely they would have made him sleepy instead of complacent and trusting.

Mando decided to look at him a bit more closely, hoping that he would find a clue regarding his identity or the role he’d played in tonight’s highly unanticipated drama. But under the ratty brown blanket, he found that the child was only wearing his nasty smelling diaper and socks that might once have been white. His movements stopped short when he saw dark marks on each side of his chest. For one terrible second, he feared that he had caused them when he picked him off the floor. But the bruises looked old, though no less scary. Someone had hurt this kid, and Mando almost hoped that the man he’d left dead two blocks away had been responsible for it. Just for the satisfaction of having ended his life.

The child started whimpering when his hand strayed too long on one particular bruise. The decision had been made for him, then. He couldn’t go to his boss, and he couldn’t go home, as his place was probably being watched. But he also couldn’t leave the kid as he was, especially if he started crying again. Seeing tears forming in his huge round eyes turned his blood cold. The kid had to see a doctor. He needed to be checked out. As uncomfortably good as he was at treating his own (regular) injuries, this was a child. A _baby_. He was unfit.

That word wouldn’t leave his mind as he slowly drove to a clinic he knew in Hyde Park, using small side streets, with his headlights off, the kid still carefully cradled against his side.

_Unfit._


	2. You can't take it with you

The clinic was a recent addition to the neighborhood. It being on _Nuestra Familia_ gang territory, it had quickly gained its attention. And money. It wouldn’t have lasted more than a couple of months without their financial aid, State grants being irregular at best, and the doctor who’d founded the establishment knew this. In order to continue helping the poor, predominantly African American and Latino population of the area, the staff would turn a blind eye when _NF_ members came in for stitches and debridement of minor gunshot wounds.

Mando had visited the place a few times. He usually preferred to do his healing on his own, and had become quite adept over the years, but even he had to admit there were limits to his knowledge. One memorable time, he’d spent the night there with a low grade concussion, thinking he was going to die.

Even though _La Eme_ didn’t know about the place, Mando took precautions and parked at the back. It was still the middle of the night, and he hoped the darkness of the unlit lot would provide enough cover when he made his escape.

That was the plan he had come up with – go in there, make sure the kid was being treated, and leave, knowing that someone would call the cops. The child would be checked out, and he’d be protected. Win-win situation, really. Mando tried to convince himself of that fact as he entered, clutching the silent bundle against his side a little tighter.

The small waiting room looked as it usually did at this time of night – half filled, with people who had come in not because they were sick, but to find shelter. The staff was aware of this, and didn’t begrudge them, as long as they stayed quiet. The rest of the “patients” consisted of fidgeting junkies hoping for a methadone fix. Mando tried not to look at them too closely as he made his way to the night receptionist sitting behind the required wall of Plexiglas.

He could see in her eyes that she recognized him. Although he wasn’t sure if it was as a former patient, or as a _Nuestra Familia_ gang member. Mando was older than the rest of his peers – they were usually lucky to see their 25th birthday, let alone their 35th – and wore no ostentatious tattoos. His were discreet, and not gang-related. A small sign between his thumb and forefinger on each of his hands. When she saw what he was holding in his arms, her attitude changed.

“Can you help me, please?” Mando still asked quietly, hoping his demeanor wouldn’t spook her.

She nodded hesitantly, clearly unsure of her decision, but the miserable look of the baby must have swayed her. If she indeed remembered Mando, she would know he wasn’t one to cause trouble. The receptionist pressed a buzzer, and she beckoned him inside once a door to her left opened.

This alerted a nurse, who joined them after a few tensed seconds. The kid had started to fidget in his arms, as if he could feel Mando’s unease.

“The doctor isn’t here, it’s just a few nurses tonight, you should really take him to a hospital,” she rushed in to say as soon as she glanced at the child, a look of worry in her eyes.

“We don’t treat children here,” she added, when she realized that her words hadn’t made an impression.

“Could you please at least check him out?” asked Mando over the whimpers of his charge. “I know this is irregular, but I just found him abandoned in a house.”

“What happened to his parents?” The nurse countered, eyeing the still bleeding wound on his forehead.

“I don’t know, he was alone. There’s bruises on his chest and he probably hasn’t eaten anything in a while,” he returned, hoping she’d soon drop the questions and focus on the actual patient.

She still had misgivings, he could tell, but a full-fledged cry from the child finally seemed to convince her.

“Follow me,” she huffed tiredly, and led them to an exam room.

Mando had a hard time detaching the kid from his chest, when the nurse asked him to put him on the bed. He was clearly unhappy about the change of settings, and made it known with a loud wail.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay little one, we just need to get a good look at you,” said the nurse in a quiet voice, clearly more adept at soothing than Mando, which wasn’t saying much.

Once divested of his blanket, and the bruises stark on his olive skin, she swiftly turned towards him.

“You found him like this?” she accused, not trying to hide her ire anymore.

The toddler kept crying, hot tears rolling down his dirty cheeks. He was looking everywhere around him, his eyes scanning the room in search of something, and raised his arms when he finally spotted Mando, who had backed off against the wall, hoping he’d soon be able to make his escape quietly.

This was more difficult than he had anticipated. And with the nurse now looking at him, there was no way to exit the room discreetly. He’d have to try again later. For now, he’d give the kid what he wanted. That seemed reasonable. So he approached the bed and intended to stroke the little head, but the kid grabbed his hand instead, and held it in his tiny fists fiercely. He hiccupped again, then was quiet. The nurse stared at him, and although recrimination was still evident in her eyes, she had mellowed significantly.

“Yes, I found him like this, just an hour ago,” Mando eventually replied, observing the kid and his movements closely. He still hadn’t released his hand and was now trying to bite off his fingers. Mando still didn’t move, even though he could feel small, pointy teeth against his knuckles.

“He’s probably teething and hungry,” the nurse noted.

Mando nodded, although he had no idea.

“The bruises look old,” she conceded, “but he should really be checked out by a pediatrician. We only have a portable x-ray here, I should call an ambulance.”

Mando nodded once more. This too, seemed reasonable. He could make his escape before the ambulance arrived. But escape was the last thing on his mind at the moment - he just wanted to sit down, take a load off his painful ribs, and look at the kid.

“We have some formula here for new moms, and diapers. I can change him and give him a bath while we wait.”

Again, no complaints from Mando, who at this point would have said yes to anything. The brown eyes were staring deeply into his, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the kid saw in him. Why had he latched onto him so quickly? Was it a simple yearning for affection and care? Or had he guessed when he’d first gazed at him in the ramshackle house that he would save him?

Mando sat on a stool next to the bed while the nurse worked. The child was calm as long as he could still hold his hand and had him in his line of sight. She washed him gently with warm, soapy water, applied cream on his diaper rash (whatever that was, although it was easy to guess) and found him a donated green onesie to wear.

“How old do you think he is?” Mando asked the nurse, who surprisingly hadn’t called an ambulance yet. Maybe the big brown eyes had also played their trick on her, he thought.

“All his incisors are out, and his canines seem to be on the way, so I’d say around 18 months. The pediatrician will be able to say with more certainty.”

Eighteen months old, marveled Mando in consternation. Surely someone was missing this kid and looking for him. Apart from the old bruises and rash, the nurse hadn’t seen any sign of neglect or malnutrition. Someone had been taking care of him until quite recently. Mando knew that this would be the cops’ job to find whoever it was, but he couldn’t help but feel he should do it himself. He felt responsible. Unfit, but responsible.

The nurse left the room to prepare a bottle of formula, and it took Mando a whole minute to realize that it was the perfect moment to leave. She wouldn’t notice he had gone. And yet, he didn’t move. He blamed his tired bones and muscles, but really the answer was much simpler than that - he just didn’t want to leave.

“Do you want to feed him?” she asked once she was back with a knowing look in her eyes. Mando was more transparent than he thought.

The correct answer to that question should have been: “No, I have no idea how you’re supposed to do that and I don’t care.” But he uttered a simple “Yes”.

He had to take the child back into his arms, and that seemed to please him immensely. He was even more pleased when he saw the bottle, and he latched on to it before Mando had the time to wonder how he was supposed to hold him, exactly. The kid clearly knew what to do, and the nurse only advised him to lower him a bit on his chest and make sure he wasn’t drinking too fast. How was he supposed to know that? Every time he tried to move the bottle slightly, the small lump would emit a mewl of complaint. So Mando stayed put, one hand holding the bottle, and the other on the child’s round tummy. He seemed to be copying his movement: a small fist making sure the bottle wouldn’t move, while the other gripped his thumb rhythmically in a sensation that had gotten quite familiar now, and that Mando was worryingly starting to enjoy.

He was done unsurprisingly quickly, then emitted an unprompted burp so loud that Mando couldn’t help but laugh audibly. The sound seemed foreign to his own ears, but the child giggled in reply. This made him feel unabashedly happy with himself. After everything he had gone through, the kid had giggled. The warm feeling in his chest didn’t last long, unfortunately. Their happy bubble burst when Mando heard raised voices outside.

“Did you call an ambulance? The cops?” he pressed, not really blaming her.

“No,” the nurse frowned. “I was going to wait until morning,” she admitted. “I’ll go check what it is.”

But as soon as she opened the door, they heard the gunshots. On red alert, Mando stood up quickly, the child complaining but still pressed to his side. He’d left his piece in the car, not imagining for a second that he would need it.

“Where’s the back exit?” he asked the dumbstruck nurse quickly. She vaguely pointed towards her left.

“Get down, lock the door!” he admonished her, when she still hadn’t moved from the outside corridor.

She slowly retraced her steps and did as he asked on autopilot, and Mando switched off the lights, looking for another way out.

“What’s in there?” he pressed, pointing at the other door.

“Medicine…cabinet,” she mumbled.

He physically pushed her in that direction. There wasn’t a lock on the inside, but it would have to do.

“Stay in there and don’t make a sound,” he told her, closing the door behind her and hoping with all his might that he was wrong. Hoping that the chaos he could still hear outside the exam room – screams, yells and gunshots – was not what he feared.

The kid was surprisingly unfazed by all the commotion. On the contrary, he seemed just about ready to fall asleep. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Mando would have laughed once more. Instead, he ran quietly and stood right behind the door that led to the corridor. Just in time, as footsteps were coming closer. He heard the door knob rattle, an expletive, then loud bangs as the door was repeatedly hit. It was flimsy, and gave out quickly. Mando shielded the kid with his body when the door bounced on him, and before the intruder had time to look inside the room, he divested him of his loosely held gun with a practiced gesture, claimed the weapon for himself and shot him twice, center mass, unceremoniously.

This one was young, and much less of a threat than the other had been at the house. The tattoos were also much more obvious, and covered half his face. He felt a pang of dread as he realized his fears had been proven right. _La Eme_. He’d somehow been followed.

But Mando had no time to ponder this new development, he needed to get out of there. He ran in the direction the nurse had pointed, not taking the time to look if he had been spotted, and could just hear invectives behind him as he pushed out the exit door. A couple of bullets flew his way but he kept on running, glad to have parked in the back. He could hear the child complaining now, and he hoped that it was because he’d been woken from his almost nap, and not because he’d been hit by a stray bullet. Mando needed to focus, and lowered himself once in the parking lot, hoping to disappear among the few cars.

There were more yells behind him, and more gunfire, shattering car windows and triggering alarms. Louder cries from the child, although the surrounding noise was probably drowning their location from the gang members. He miraculously reached his car, his head still down, got in, dropped the gun on the other seat, started the engine and drove off almost blindly, barely looking over the wheel as he tried to keep them low enough. The back window exploded in a million pieces, the child screamed, and he tore off from the parking lot, the wheels spinning in their haste.

Mando started breathing again when they reached the end of the next street. He turned several times randomly - left, right, left, right - trying not to pay attention to the kid’s insistent sobbing. He had no choice now, he needed to reach his headquarters. The only place he would be safe. The only place _they_ would be safe, he corrected himself. A quick look assured him that the kid wasn’t bleeding anywhere, but he still had to confirm they weren’t being followed, which was no easy task. Mando did his best, taking half an hour to reach the tire shop on Slauson Avenue, when it should have only taken 10 minutes at this time of night, his eyes staring at the inside mirror every few seconds, fearing he would see a car tailing him or a cop’s patrol.

He knew South L.A. like the back of his hand, but as he drove its streets that night, dawn starting to make itself known in the East, he felt as though the neighborhood he’d known practically all his life had it against him. Accusing him at every wrong turn. As if he no longer belonged. His city had become alien to him, all his certainties had shattered. But the weight of the child was still reassuringly there. His only constant as he drove one-handed was the rhythmic heartbeat and the gradually lessening cries coming from the small, warm body.

When he finally reached his destination, activating the garage door with the remote located at the top of his windshield, Mando closed his eyes. Almost expecting the gunshots to start again as soon as he stopped the car. But the tire shop was quiet, and the only sound was his own and the kid’s breathing. He spared a few thoughts to the clinic he’d just left, knowing the gang would have to relocate their business somewhere else, and hoped that the man he’d killed was the only casualty. Somehow, he doubted it, and sighed at the memory of the nurse who’d shown him kindness in the end.

Unsure what would be waiting for him outside the car, Mando took extra seconds to come to terms with the recent events.

“We’ll figure it out with Greef,” he said out loud, surprising himself. The kid raised his head towards him, looking appeased by his voice.

“And then I promise you’ll be able to sleep,” he added for good measure.

With that goal in mind, Mando exited the truck. After a moment of hesitation, and with a cursory look around the empty garage, he reached below his seat, and placed his gun at his waistband, hiding it behind his shirt. He wouldn’t be taken by surprise again if he could help it, and he preferred to use his own gun rather than the one he’d collected from the now dead rival gang member. Feeling slightly better, he walked all the way to the back, where the boss’ office was located. He knocked on the door, having no idea what Greef did or did not know about the situation, and received a prompt, and worryingly calm answer.

“Come in, Mando.”

He was expected, then. But was it a good or a bad thing? He suddenly had an irrational urge to turn on his heels and walk away. To simply go back to his car and drive off, never to return again. To just disappear. But this was his _family_ , they would _protect him_. Like they always had. And he would continue to be the dutiful son. And pay his dues. No matter what they cost him. Because _family was family_.

Mando swallowed hard and opened the door.

Inside, Greef wasn’t alone. Standing behind him were one person he knew, and one he didn’t, but whose LAPD uniform was hard to miss, and probably an easy enough giveaway.

“Sit down, Mando. I think we all have a lot to talk about,” announced Greef jovially.

Tensing, Mando regretted not having listened to his instinct outside and left the place when he still had the chance. Because he was quite sure that he wouldn’t like the discussion they were about to have.

“Can I see the child?” asked Moff Gideon, _La Eme_ ’s boss, the last man he had expected to see in the same room as his own boss. And yet, here he was. And he knew about the child. And Mando’s life was about to become very, very complicated.


	3. Dancing for your pleasure

Mando knew he had to play his cards close to his chest. If he showed any weakness or interest in the child, they would be onto him and know that he cared more than he should. That was something else he’d learned early on – never show what you truly feel if you want to stay alive. And at this moment, Mando was starting to think it would be very difficult indeed to exit the room in one piece.

So despite every single cell in his body screaming at him that it was _wrong_ , that _La Eme_ were the enemy and that something terrible would happen if he were to hand off the kid, that’s exactly what he did, with a practiced, unconcerned “Sure”.

If he didn’t show how much the kid meant to him, perhaps he’d be able to hold him again.

He tried not to cringe at the sound coming out of the toddler when he unlatched him from his chest – Mando could almost _feel_ the sense of betrayal through his bones – and held him towards a man he not so secretly hoped to kill with his bare hands if it ever came to it.

It was a lot harder to mask his surprise when the child reacted with a very distinctive and verbal “No!” when he found himself in Moff’s arms. _The kid could speak!_ Surely, this shouldn’t have been such a revelation – he was 18 months old according to the clinic’s nurse – but it still came as a shock, especially since he wouldn’t stop repeating that word. Instead of troubling _La Eme_ ’s boss, though, it seemed to galvanize him. As if he’d expected such a reaction all along.

“Now that we’re all here,” spoke Moff, still holding the child and doing a very good impression at not caring that he was being rejected by the tiny creature, “why don’t I start?”

Greef gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and Mando had to restrain himself once more from his automatic reaction. _Get the kid and get out of here._ So instead, he sat, and tried to ignore the litany of “Nos” coming from the toddler.

“Do you know our other guest?” Moff asked, eyeing the uniformed man.

Said cop hadn’t shown any reaction yet, and still stood silent on Greef’s other side. Mando had immediately noted he was a Lieutenant, thanks to the distinctive metal pin on his shirt collar – he knew his insignias – and that gave him pause. He was no mere officer, easily bought off by a gang to look the other way. The man had standing in the LAPD, which meant Mando was probably well over his head in this whole business. _What the hell was going on?_

Still, Mando dutifully shook his head in answer to the question.

He was smart enough to realize that showing him the cop was a deterrent – no need to try and run off to them for help, they’re involved already – but he was pissed off that they would think him that naïve. He wasn’t an easily awed, recently sworn in gang member, eager to show his might to the boss. He’d been part of _Nuestra Familia_ for 30 years. Not as an active participant at first perhaps, but he still knew all their tricks. And he thought they knew him, and wouldn’t subject him to this frankly humiliating and childish show of strength.

“No matter, the Lieutenant was just leaving.”

And just like that, the cop left, not having uttered a single word in his presence, although he was very obvious in the way he looked at Mando as he exited, filing in every detail about his appearance. If that was how they planned to scare him, they had another thing coming.

Moff started speaking again, but before he could continue, further humiliation was thrown in, in the shape of two young gang members from _La Eme_ strutting in. Mando was definitely starting to hate the sight of their tattoos, and he hoped he wasn’t imagining the look of unmasked disgust on Greef’s face. Would they have to suffer even more of _those_ people in their own HQ? It seemed silly to worry over such a trivial thing when every alarm bell was ringing in his mind, but Mando calmly made a note to himself that they’d also have to relocate their base somewhere else. _Again._

“So that’s the _cabrón_ , who killed my brother?” uttered one of his new friends upon entering, looking disdainfully at his face.

Mando prided himself on being a lot of things: taciturn, patient, hardworking, focused, resilient, creative…to only name a few qualities. But he hadn’t slept for 36 hours. His head was throbbing and his ribs painful. And the distressed sobs coming from the child who was still in his sworn enemy’s arms were not helping. So it was frankly only natural that his _less_ attractive attributes would eventually make themselves known. His bluntness, his pig-headedness, his temper flaring when pushed too hard, his dislike at being insulted in Spanish (and any other languages, really)… Looking back, he knew he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Which one was he, the ugly one who kept his face hidden, or the stupid one who didn’t know how to properly hold a gun?”

_But he didn’t._

“I’m gonna kill you, _¡hijo de puta!_ ”

Oh, and people insulting his mom. Something else he really, really didn’t like.

Mando stood up, but before he had time to reach for his gun, his arms were encircled from behind by the second new arrival, and his face punched twice, hard. He was frankly getting tired of having his ass handed to him, and directed a vicious kick with his heavy boot between the legs of the bad-mouthing gang member. In the resulting “Oompf” coming from him, Mando head-butted his friend from behind, hearing a pleasing crack. Released, he was finally able to take out his gun, and aimed it at their hunched postures.

“Gentlemen!” protested Greef, who’d stood up. He looked vaguely amused, but only just.

Moff, on the other hand, was livid, and remonstrated his minions in rapid Spanish. Mando heard his patronage being insulted again, in muffled, pained voices, but he took no notice, because in his anger, Moff had put the child on the ground, belatedly tired of having to hold a gesticulating toddler. And said toddler was now walking, unsteadily, towards him. He didn’t have time to marvel at this further new development, because he’d just gotten an idea. Maybe, just maybe, they could still make their escape.

As soon as the child was within reach, Mando grabbed him, earning himself a happy squeal. It was funny how easy and automatic it was to hold him against his left side, when it had only been a few hours since he’d started having him in his arms. With his free hand still holding his gun, Mando took advantage of the reigning confusion to break the glass sensor of the fire alarm, located near the door. On cue, it resounded noisily, and triggered the water sprinklers. If the alarm worked correctly, it would have also automatically opened the garage door, in order to evacuate both people and smoke quickly. But Mando was pretty sure that would be the case – after all, he’d been the one who’d installed the system. He just never told Greef what it did exactly.

Not waiting another second, Mando ran for it, hoping it would be the last time today he had to reach his car in such a hurry. The truck seemed worryingly far away once he’d exited the office, but he was pleased to see that he had been right – the garage door was slowly coming up. He heard voices behind him, but thankfully no gunfire yet, and once behind the wheel, he saw how close Moff was from him. He was tempted for about half a second to somehow run him over, but decided against it, and focused on making his escape backwards, his poor tires squealing again and the child in the same sound register.

Once safely outside on Slauson Avenue, Mando realized he has no idea where to drive to. He had to avoid the South Figueroa Corridor because it would soon be packed with morning commuters, but that left him with little options. Home was obviously out of the question, but he knew that they wouldn’t go far if he didn’t stop and _think_ for a little while. Too many things had happened and he needed to figure it all out before making any (more) stupid decisions. And for that, he needed some shut eye, desperately. Same with the kid, he was sure. The little tyke hadn’t slept for who knew how long, and although he didn’t know much about children, he was pretty sure they needed a lot of rest.

That decision made, he headed north for the USC campus, where he was familiar with an underground car park lacking surveillance cameras. He drove the long way round, turning randomly and checking his mirror every other second.

The sun had risen just above the horizon when he parked, and Mando was glad to find himself once more in the dark. Soon, the streets would be filled with people excited about the upcoming 4th of July weekend, and the temperature would rise considerably. Better to allow himself a couple of hours of sleep now, and think about his next move once the roads had cleared up a bit after rush hour.

The kid looked just about ready to drop off, now that the engine had been shut down, and the excitement left (hopefully) behind. Mando felt like he held him silently for a long time, but it probably only took about 5 minutes for him to fall asleep in his arms. Once he was sure he was deeply in dreamland, he very cautiously laid him on the backseat, finding an old plaid to cover him with, although he was quite sure he wouldn’t get cold anytime soon. Satisfied, Mando painfully waited another half hour to be certain no one had followed him, then stretched out as best as he could on his seat, and shut his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t be sleeping too deeply in case anything was to happen.

_Being pushed in a cupboard. Darkness. Stuffy smells. Voices pleading. Holding his breath. His mother. His father. Gunshots. Then nothing. Nothing for a really long time._

Mando opened his eyes.

As it turned out, nothing happened, and Mando was surprised to see that he had slept soundly for almost two hours, despite his dream. He hadn’t had this particular one for a long time. 

The parking lot had filled, but no one had paid attention to his old truck with the bashed in rear window, and for this he was very glad, feeling, if not refreshed, at least ready to figure out his next move.

He stretched, and saw that the kid was still asleep in the back, his chest reassuringly going up, and down, and up again. Mando let himself be transfixed by the sight for a little while longer, his thoughts slowly becoming clearer.

It was now obvious that the child _had_ been the asset Greef had sent him to get last night. But _La Eme_ had also dispatched their own guy, with a different instruction – to kill said asset. Mando wasn’t sure why and when the rival gang had eventually changed their minds, and decided that the child should be captured alive. But it was clear that they had at one point: Moff had had every opportunity in the tire shop to kill the kid, cop or not, and hadn’t. What remained to be seen was why exactly his _own_ gang had decided to join forces with _La Eme_ , and for what reasons. What could possibly interest them both in an 18 months old kid?

He almost wished he had been able to stay a little longer, and actually hear what Moff wanted to say. But he had chosen to make his escape when he could, knowing the opportunity was too good to miss. He hoped he would be able to reach Greef at one point, and hear him out. Mando still felt indebted to him, despite his contradictory feelings.

Greef had taken on the boss’ role only recently, following the old boss’ death. It had been both a painful and welcome experience for Mando. Painful, because for lack of a better word, the old boss had been like a father to him for the last 30 years. A ruthless, hard to please father, but a father nonetheless. Greef, on the other hand, had been the nicer, though slightly unreliable younger uncle. And no one, Greef included, had expected he’d be boss one day. This made for a more laid back organization all around, and for this Mando was grateful: it had allowed him to start dreaming about a way out again. And he had. Up until the previous night, when faced with an impossible choice. But there really hadn’t been any decision to make: how could he have abandoned the kid? Although he’d been much older at the time, Mando had also been rescued as a child, and it seemed only fair that he should now do the same.

Thinking about that awful day, when he’d waited and waited until his parents came back for him, knowing in his heart that they were dead already, made him look at the small bundle in the backseat again. Mando couldn’t be sure the kid’s parents were dead as well, and he felt terrible for not being able to tell him one way or the other, even if he was too small to understand. The not knowing was the worse. He wished he could just hand the child off to the police and let them do their work, but he knew it was impossible, now. And more importantly, that he’d have to leave L.A. if he wanted to keep him safe. Although he hadn’t heard Moff's plan – he even started to think this whole meeting was an elaborate trick – he was pretty sure it was nothing good where the kid was concerned. The Lieutenant hadn’t been introduced to him just for show. Trusting the police had always been a difficult thing for Mando, but now he knew for certain he couldn’t. He was on his own.

The easy choice would be to go to Baja, and find his _Nuestra Familia_ brothers there. But given Greef’s involvement, there was no way to know how far this whole situation went. He knew the boss in Tijuana and several ways to cross the border without being noticed by the police – either American or Mexican – but driving south was probably what they would expect from him. So he nixed that idea.

Driving to Phoenix or Las Vegas would mean changing State. And Mando realized that if he were to do that, his kidnapping, for lack of a better word, would become a federal crime. He’d then have to deal with even more agencies. Even if the kid no longer had parents, he was pretty sure that Moff would do everything in his power to make his life miserable – worse than the LAPD, he would have the FBI after him.

If Moff was indeed set on getting the child back from him, for whatever nefarious reason, that left him with one direction, north. This would allow him to stay in California, but leave L.A. behind.

With that itinerary in mind, and the fact that the country was about to celebrate its independence, he started thinking about one possible destination where he and the kid might be safe for a while. When he was forced to rejoin the gang at the old boss’ insistence 3 years ago, there was another family he had to leave behind. One who had also welcomed him with open arms when he was 18. And perhaps they’d welcome him back. Mando wasn’t sure, but it was his best shot.

He couldn’t help but feel betrayed by his gang, or at least Greef – he had allied himself with _La Eme_ , when they were supposed to be arch-rivals. It was worse than that for Mando, though. It was personal. The Mexican Mafia had been responsible for his parents’ death, after all. How could he trust him now? Mando desperately wanted to speak to his boss, make sense of things, but now wasn’t the moment yet.

Now, he had to change cars. They had to get going. To keep moving. Good thing he was in a parking lot, then. That had been his first intention when he reached the place, but he’d decided sleep was the priority.

Mando started by opening his trunk, making sure not to wake the kid from his apparently deep slumber or cut himself on the exploded window glass. The truck was more of a home than his apartment, and he felt sad for having to leave it behind. But it meant he had useful items hidden away. Items he was glad to have kept here – he wouldn’t have to figure out how to go to his place. Sure, he’d miss some stuff, but he could very well leave the city without. He’d learned early on how to live with few creature comforts.

From there, he gathered an old gym bag, containing a change of clothes, but also $800 in cash, hidden in a secret compartment. From under the different seats, he gathered ammo, an extra gun (he decided to leave the one he’d collected from the dead _La Eme_ gang member behind, though, thinking it would bring him bad luck), some tools and a tablet which had never been connected to the phone network, but could prove useful with Wi-Fi. His phone, still off, was similarly abandoned.

Keeping an eye on his car, Mando started checking the other vehicles around him. He was looking for one that wouldn’t give him too much trouble to open and start – and apart from the most recent models, that wasn’t really a problem for him – but there was another thing he hoped to find: a child’s car seat. He couldn’t continue holding the child while he drove, and if he could avoid having to pay for one and risk being discovered in L.A., all the better.

He was in luck – a dark grey SUV seemed to be just what he was looking far. Perhaps a bit too conspicuous for his liking, but it had a car seat in the back that looked just the right size for the kid.

One eye on his car, and the other on the parking lot’s entrance, Mando got to work. Thanks to the tools he’d collected from his trunk, it took next to no time. And five minutes later, the still sleeping child was strapped in, after a couple tries on the frankly ridiculously difficult to work around harness, the engine on, and the course in his mind set.

North.


	4. You are not to blame for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words! A bit less plot, but a bit more fluff in this chapter.

It was mid-morning, now. And although the rush hour had passed, it was still going to take a while to exit the city, especially when one wanted to avoid the Hollywood Freeway. Mando preferred to take his time and not arise suspicions, driving just under the speed limit and choosing minor roads, but it also meant lingering in L.A. when all he wanted was to put it behind him as fast as possible. He couldn’t trust anyone, and was suspicious of every car that stayed in his mirror too long. Was it someone from _La Eme_? Someone from his own gang acting on Greef’s orders? Cops, crooked or otherwise, that had been clued in on the situation?

He’d estimated that it would take him around 12 hours to complete the 500 miles journey he had set out for himself, avoiding tolls and highways, where he could be more easily stopped. And if the police had set an APB on him and the baby, he had to take each and every precaution in the book. Since he had no idea whether his friend would be home, and had no way to contact him to find out – even if he _did_ have his number, that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have on the phone – he’d have to arrive during daylight. It meant they’d have to make a stop and find a motel at some point. It was usually something he tried to avoid, but with a kid in tow, this was probably for the best. And sleeping in a bed was pretty high up on his list of wishes at the moment.

Mando paused in his thoughts. _His friend_. How could he be sure he would still be his friend? He dearly hoped he wasn’t making one more mistake. His military family was the only one he could turn to, now. But he’d know tomorrow, on the 4th of July. How fitting, somehow.

There was another stop they needed to make, and Mando didn’t relish that prospect. Once again, if he had been on his own, he could have avoided it, surviving on quick pit stops and drive-thru coffee and food, but there was the kid to think about. He was pretty sure there were no drive-thrus for diapers and whatever food 18 months old could eat. 

They would need to go _shopping_. Mando shuddered. Shopping with a toddler was the absolute _last_ item on his list.

But first, getting out of the city proper, which took close to two hours with the still heavy traffic and his indirect approach. He’d decided to push through once in Ventura, crossed Los Padres National Forest, and arrived outside Bakersfield. The child was still sleeping soundly in his seat, Mando giving him quick looks every so often in the mirror, and the drive had almost started to feel pleasant. The car was comfortable, the A/C much better than in his old truck, and he had found expensive-looking black sunglasses in the glove compartment that did the trick against the blaring Californian Summer daylight. They even looked pretty cool, Mando thought, in a rare self-conscious contemplation.

Making a list of all the items they needed in his mind, and aware of the fact that he would also need to change and feed the toddler, Mando knew he had two choices. Either he found a small bodega somewhere and hoped they had everything, picking another spot after that to take care of the kid and figure out if there was any way he could safely reach out to Greef, or manage to do everything at once in the one spot he was the least expected to be found.

_Walmart._

On an early Summer afternoon, the day before the 4th of July. In other words, sheer madness.

Or sheer brilliance, he preferred to think, unless his face was plastered on every website and news channel by then, but somehow he doubted the LAPD could move that fast, especially now that he was in Kern County, technically outside their jurisdiction. There was no way to know how much of an influence Moff could have on the State police, but he didn’t think he’d be found out just yet. It was on the other hand a safe bet to stay well away from any place gang members could come across him, and Walmart was definitely _not_ where they went shopping.

Mando still scanned the radio for any word about him once he had parked in the football field sized lot, but didn’t hear anything alarming. This, in combination with the car having stopped, woke up the kid, who opened his eyes sluggishly and emitted a groan. Fearing loud wails, Mando held his breath in wait as he turned towards him, but the child quieted down as soon as he saw him, and started babbling something he couldn’t decipher.

“We’re going shopping, kid.”

More babble, and Mando started breathing a little easier. Maybe they’d survive this new adventure, he thought.

Once inside the building, he started having doubts, though. The place was _immense._ How were people supposed to find what they were looking for? But the good thing was that said people paid zero attention to him. They were interested in one thing only – buy stuff. And the looming celebratory weekend meant they wanted to buy _even more_ stuff. So Mando, fearing he stood up like a sore thumb with his dark zip-up hoody found in his gym bag hiding the gun he chose not to leave behind, hood up, sunglasses on, pushing a cart with a green onesie wearing toddler, was actually just one more customer. And the boy proved to be a great cover. Many people – mostly women, but some men too – were pushing their own kids around, thanks to the child seat equipped shopping carts.

Clearly, it wasn’t the first time the toddler was riding in one of those, and he seemed to be enjoying the whole experience. He was looking everywhere, his huge brown eyes becoming even bigger. There was indeed a lot to see, but Mando didn’t want to linger more than they should, so he set out in search of baby things first.

His first obstacle came when he had to choose diapers. There were a lot more than he expected to find. He finally settled on a medium sized pack where the kid on the picture looked about the same age. The rest, he’d have to figure out later. He picked up wet-wipes and baby soap in a nearby shelf, then remembered that the clinic nurse had mentioned something about a diaper rash. She’d applied cream, and he wondered if he could find that here. Further on, he spotted something that would do the trick, as well as a couple of pacifiers. The toddlers he saw all seemed to be munching on those in the store, so maybe they could be good for the teething thing.

Then came clothes. He couldn’t very well leave him forever in his green onesie, but the sheer _amount_ of choice at his disposal staggered him. Why would such young kids need that much variety? They could stay in pajamas all day! Still, when he found a soft brown hoody with round, tiny bear-like ears sewn in the hood, he realized he might have had this all wrong.

“They’re so cute, aren’t they?” said a woman he hadn’t seen coming, right beside him. He must have been holding the tiny garment longer than he thought.

“I’d get it in 2 years if I were you though, they grow up so fast at that age,” she added with a knowing smirk, already turning the corner with her cart. Mando sighed, feeling like he was going through an out of body experience – _what the hell was he doing here again?_ – and did exactly as she had suggested.

He added a few more items almost randomly, some clothes for himself, a map of California, food for the both of them – spending precious minutes reading labels on baby food jars – and after a blessedly short queue thanks to the massive number of checkout lanes, they were back in the car. He’d paid cash, and was worried to see how much he was already spending when he still had to take fuel and the motel tonight into account, but he decided not to fret about it too much yet. He’d bought only stuff they actually needed – tiny hoodie excluded.

Mando grabbed a clean diaper from the bag he’d just bought, the wet-wipes, cream and some new baby clothes with the tags removed, and went back inside, having spied a baby changing room by the store’s entrance when he had come in.

The kid had only been seen wearing the green onesie from the clinic, so he thought it best to have him wear something else. When he saw how many tiny snap-buttons the thing had, he was glad to have picked up jogger pants and a T-shirt instead. Removing the old diaper, using the wet wipes and the cream was less of a struggle than he had expected, but putting on a fresh diaper proved quite a challenge. How was he to know which way they were supposed to go? Sure, he understood that the adhesive tag things had to meet in the middle, but on what side? His front or his back? He wished he’d taken the bag with him, although he wasn’t sure it included a user guide. The baby was no help at all, and kept on trying to grab his own toes.

“Does it feel alright to you?” he couldn’t help but ask the kid, hoping stupidly that he would tell him that no, the diaper was upside down. But no answer was given except for a coo.

 _Oh, well_.

When they exited the room, the kid now also wearing tiny slip on sneakers that Mando was awfully proud to see were the right size, he put him on the ground, thinking he’d like to stretch his legs a little, before heading back to the car. He couldn’t believe he’d actually missed out on the fact that the kid could walk. But then, when he’d discovered him behind a pile of cardboard boxes, he had been effectively trapped in. It already felt like such a long time ago, and the toddler, cleaned-up and in actual clothes, looked completely different.

As he was happily frolicking and wobbling like a minuscule drunk person in the limited crowded space, never straying far from Mando and always keeping him in his line of sight, he suddenly had an idea, when the kid dashed too fast on his left, which prompted a young woman to suddenly change direction, but not before Mando was able to divest her of the phone she was unwisely keeping in her jeans’ back pocket.

Mando grabbed the kid and went back to the car. He knew that the child was probably hungry, but once he had made his call, they would need to leave. So he strapped him in his seat (getting better with the harness) gave him a bagel, a pacifier, and a baby bottle filled with water, and let him choose how he wanted to occupy himself while he phoned Greef. He chose the bagel, Mando was pleased to see, and started happily chewing/slobbering over it.

He dialed the number he knew by heart quickly, before he could change his mind.

Greef picked up on the first ring.

“Are you alone?” Mando asked him.

“Yes,” his boss eventually replied after a long-drawn exhale.

Obviously, Mando had no way to know if he could trust him, on this matter or any other, but he wasn’t going to be on the phone with him long in any case.

“Where are you?” Greef quickly pressed.

Mando stayed silent.

“You need to come back,” he insisted, “we can still make this work, but you need to come back.”

“Make what work?”

“Look, Mando, this is bigger than you. Bigger than any of us.”

“But not bigger than _La Eme_?” he pointed out.

Another sigh on the other end.

“I don’t like their involvement any more than you do, but I had no choice.”

“Why?”

This time, Mando was the one who didn’t get a reply. But he couldn’t let it go.

“Greef, it’s _La Eme_ , what the fuck is going on? There’s nothing too big that would make siding with them a good idea.”

“You’re wrong. But that kid you have with you could be our ticket out, you need to bring him back.”

“Not before you explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then we don’t have a deal.”

“Mando, I’m _ordering_ you to bring that child back to HQ, _right now_.”

He couldn’t help but laugh humorlessly.

“So that you can hand him off to _La Eme_? To Moff?”

“It’s the only way.”

Mando scratched his scalp angrily, failing not to be distracted by the toddler he could see in the mirror, still dutifully working on his bagel.

“Do you even know what they want to do with the kid? Did Moff tell you during your cozy meeting?” he asked, hoping to get a rise out of Greef.

“I don’t need to know, not when I’m confident it’s going to resolve our problems.”

“What problems?” Mando pressed again, wanting to understand desperately. But no reply came, and he grimaced, knowing he had to hang up soon.

“Greef, whatever promise Moff made to you, you can’t trust him. _We_ can’t trust him. It’s just a kid. A _baby_.”

“You didn’t use to have such principles, Mando.”

This was low. And he dearly wished Greef was in front of him instead of on the other end of a phone call. Just so that he could see the dark look in his eyes. _And the fist coming towards his face._

“I _had_ principles, you just weren’t there at the time.”

“Listen to that, the good little soldier. Is that what you’re gonna do, then? Run back to them?”

Mando was only half surprised that Greef knew him so well.

“They’re never gonna take you back.”

And knew which buttons to press to hurt.

“You belong with us, Mando. _We’re_ your family. And you need to come back and bring in the child.”

Mando hung up before he said anything he would later regret. It took him a full minute to feel composed again. He couldn’t make sense of his discussion with Greef. What he’d learned only brought up more questions. Questions he had tried and failed to have answered. The kid was supposed to resolve a problem, whatever it was, involving two rival gangs who had joined forces. Somehow, the police also played a role in this scenario. Mando was normally very good at following orders – he’d made a life out of following orders. But this was wrong. This whole thing felt _wrong_.

“Who are you, kid?” he wondered out loud. He only received a gurgle in answer and couldn’t help a small smile.

On their way out of the parking lot, Mando casually slid his window down and dropped the phone he had been using to call Greef – he didn’t need it anymore.

They drove North for about half an hour, and once Mando felt he had put enough distance between them and the Walmart, he stopped at a gas station in a place appropriately called Lost Hills. He filled the car up and got coffee, then parked in the back to look at the map he had bought more closely. He was good with maps, but he preferred aeronautical charts. Since they weren’t flying to their destination though, he’d have to make do.

He ate a bagel and sipped his coffee as he worked, choosing his roads carefully and picking a spot for the motel tonight. There was a lot of road ahead of them if they wanted to reach Concord, which would then be about 2 hours from their destination tomorrow morning, and thus seemed like as good a place as any. Mando reached out for a banana, still absorbed by the map, and thus didn’t see the kid reaction until he heard him.

“Ba..ba…banana!”

He’d forgotten again that the kid had also spoken that morning. It was just to say no at the time, but still.

“Yeah I’m eating a banana,” he confirmed with a chuckle.

“Banana!” the boy repeated, holding his hand towards him, his little eyebrows crossed in concentration.

“You haven’t finished your bagel,” Mando pointed out, the half-eaten thing discarded on the middle seat.

“Banana!”

Mando sighed, beaten, and handed him a small piece of it. It was eaten with a lot of gusto, so another piece was offered. Then another. In the end, the kid ate almost all of it.

“Next time, get your own,” he complained half-heartedly, using a wet wipe to clean up both the bagel and banana mess the kid had made.

He handed him the baby bottle and he drank some water, then the pacifier was accepted with a contented coo. If only everybody was as easy to please as this child, marveled Mando.

Back on the road, they drove in silence. The kid was either looking outside or napping – Mando chose the latter moment to eat another banana and make a quick pit stop on the side of a deserted road – but Greef’s words still bothered him. How could he be absolutely sure he was making the right choice? How much trouble was his gang in? Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth this or any child’s life, he was sure of it, but it didn’t mean he didn’t want to help them either. They _were_ his family, Greef was right about that.

His two-hour nap in the USC parking lot that morning started feeling like a long lost memory after another four hours of mindless driving on empty roads. It was late afternoon by then, and the sun was beating hard on the driver side of the car. This part of central California was dry and inhospitable. He almost wished for some traffic to occupy himself. Outside of a city called Newman, he spotted a drive-thru, and hoped the food and coffee would wake him up. The kid, done napping for now, didn’t ask for his burger, but Mando still gave him half his fries. It was probably not very healthy at his age, but he clearly seemed to enjoy them.

He decided to put on the radio then, hoping the last two hours of the journey would go quickly. But the music he found either annoyed the kid or made him sleepier. He finally settled on a soccer game, commented in Spanish. Although he didn’t really care who was playing, he was soon engrossed in the action. So engrossed that he didn’t hear the boy at first.

“Papa?”

Mando lowered the sound, certain he hadn’t heard him correctly. But the word was repeated. There was a clear interrogation point at the end of the name, but it still made his heart skip a beat. He realized that the kid was probably reacting to the voice on the radio, speaking in Spanish.

“ _No soy tu pap_ _á_ _, cariño_ ,” Mando still told him softly.


	5. Bittersweet distractors

It was close to eight when they finally reached Concord, the traffic having turned sluggish with the arrival of commuters, but at least the necessity to use the brake pedal and steering wheel for a change had kept Mando awake. The little one on the other hand had fallen back to sleep after the soccer game. Mando couldn’t blame him, and hoped he’d soon be able to do the same. The ‘No Vacancy’ signs scared him at first – this was the start of a holiday weekend after all – but as he got further and further away from the city center, the accommodations turned shabbier looking, but with available rooms at least. And would be more than ready to accept cash payment, Mando thought.

The manager barely looked up from the TV show she was watching when she took down his (fake) name, address, and license plate. When he told her he was with an 18 months old kid, she finally raised an eye towards him, looking doubtful. Said kid was still in the car just outside, though. She sighed deeply, no doubt annoyed at having to miss out on her show for him.

“We don’t have cots,” she warned.

“That’s fine,” he replied quickly.

“And that’ll be an extra 20 bucks.”

_Of course._

“Also fine.”

“If the kid falls out of bed, we’re not responsible,” she added, although she had now finally handed him the key.

“Understood,” Mando cut in, hoping she wasn’t about to go on a whole tirade regarding all the hazards the hotel wasn’t responsible for. But she was apparently done with him, and back to watching her blaring TV.

The kid woke up as he was releasing him from his car seat. Mando had hoped he could have quickly put him to bed, but he seemed wide-awake now, and excited about his new surroundings. It wasn’t as hot as in L.A., and for this he was grateful, given how old and noisy the A/C unit in their double room was. Everything was ancient and dingy, including the mattresses Mando made the mistake of immediately lying on, hearing a few bones crack, but at least it seemed relatively clean. He knew that if he were to close his eyes right there and then, he’d immediately fall asleep. So he forced himself up, and checked what the kid was doing. He found him in the bathroom, trying to get inside the tub.

“Whoa, wait there, you’ll fall in,” he warned, grabbing him under his arms.

He received a deep frown and raised lower lip in answer.

“You want to take a bath?” he surmised, and before he could ask him in Spanish, the kid nodded.

Mando had no idea baths were such a hit with kids, but apparently they were. Thinking it would not necessarily be a bad thing to get him clean, he easily relented, even though the only thing he wanted at the moment was to crawl into bed and sleep for ten hours straight.

He filled the tub with warm water, wondering whether it would be too hot or too cold for the kid and fearing the old pipes would simply give out at some point, with the awful noise they were making. The child was jumping excitedly next to him, and he had to prevent him again from going in with his clothes on.

“Bubbles!” he exclaimed.

“Sorry kid, no bubbles,” Mando told him.

This didn’t seem to please him, so he got the tiny complimentary cheap soap and shampoo bottles and poured them both in. He should have probably only put one, or even half of one he quickly realized, when the foam wouldn’t stop rising, but the delighted squeal he received from the kid was, all things considered, a nice result. He stopped the water, checked the temperature one more time, and finally divested the boy of his clothes and diaper and put him in the tub. He knelt down anxiously and kept on holding him, worried that he would slip, but the little tyke seemed to know what he was doing and sat pleasantly in the warm bubbles, so he slowly released him, his arms tensed and at the ready to catch him if anything should happen. After a full minute of uneasiness, he eventually felt he was agonizing too much over things – the kid wouldn’t drown if he sat down next to the tub and simply let him be. So that’s what Mando did, observing him quietly and forcing himself to stay awake. But the sight of the clearly happy and giggly child was enough. He even managed to wash him after a while, using the baby soap he had bought that morning, and the only challenge arose when he tried to wash his hair. Baths were a yes, shampoos a no it seemed, and he was almost as drenched as the kid when he was done rinsing all the bubbles from him.

Mando wrapped him four times around in a starchy towel, then carried him back to the bedroom. The warm water seemed to have made him sleepy, and he was completely unresisting when he dried him, applied the cream on his bottom and a fresh diaper – he was pretty sure he’d been right all along with the adhesive tags meeting in the front, but the whole process still seemed unnatural to him. As he had feared when he removed the green one from him that morning, getting him inside his new onesie (blue and short-sleeved this time) was a struggle. There were far too many tiny buttons and no clear indication again on the direction it was supposed to go. What he did learn was that toddlers were incredibly supple, though – worryingly so – given how easy it was to move each of his limbs in the various parts, until he was sure he got everything in the right place and order.

He sat down with a huff when he was done, his back and ribs complaining fiercely. The kid crawled on his lap before he had time to rest, so Mando took him in his arms, hoping he would fall asleep as quickly as he had that morning in the car, but somehow doubting it. He only wanted to be held it seemed, and Mando stroked his back as his curly and still slightly wet head came to rest against his chest.

He wasn’t an easily rattled person. On the contrary – Mando believed he possessed an ordered and collected approach to unknown or unexpected situations. He’d thrived on it in the army and in the Air Force later. And yet, _this_ unknown and unexpected situation, currently curved around him, was so completely alien and overwhelming that he had no choice but to let his instincts take over.

“Are you hungry?” he asked him, not moving. “ _¿Tienes hambre?_ ”

“Bibi,” the child whispered, and Mando understood he meant his baby bottle.

Thankfully, he’d also bought formula this morning – once again staggered at the sheer amount of choice but happy to see that the ages were clearly indicated on the boxes – and although he now knew from experience that the kid ate actual food, that sounded reasonable to him to let him have milk before going to sleep.

He left him on the bed, and used bottled water and the almost antique microwave that was surprisingly still working. The formula box came with a measuring scoop, and for once the instructions were written clearly on the side. It did say that he should check the temperature though, and Mando wasn’t sure how warm the kid wanted it, so he waited until it cooled down to about the same temperature as the clinic nurse’s had made it the previous night. As he sat down once more and tried to remember the instructions she had given him, he marveled at the fact that he’d had the child for just shy of 24 hours. Nevertheless, when the boy grabbed his thumb and squeezed it rhythmically with his fist as he was feeding him his bottle, he almost felt like he had been doing this for much longer.

It was the last straw for the kid. After a barely there burp, his eyes kept on trying to close, and Mando knew he had to get him in bed quickly if he wanted to be able to detach him from his chest. He gave him his pacifier, and placed him in the middle of the bed, with all the pillows he could find around him, hopefully blocking his escape and preventing him from receiving a pointed “I told you so” from the bored manager the next morning. The child was asleep before he rose up from the bed, looking quite incapable of making any movement anytime soon.

Mando sighed deeply, and stared at him for a little while, convincing himself that he was only making sure he was well and truly asleep. Pleased that it did seem to be the case, he went to clean the bottle in the bathroom then got ready for his own shower – minus the bubbles.

It was the first time he was actually looking at himself in a mirror, and he couldn’t help a muttered “Fuck”. He looked terrible. Without the sunglasses, he could see that his left cheekbone was starting to change color, the cut on his forehead had closed but the skin was still red around it and painful to the touch, and his lower lip had split. He was pretty sure he’d look worse tomorrow. Hopefully, the sunglasses and ball cap he’d got from Walmart would improve the situation. He wasn’t going to be able to shave anytime soon either, but that was actually more of a relief than anything (he hadn’t shaved for days), and would help covering the bruises. The wrist that had bothered him last night seemed fine, but his ribs were a different story. His right side was turning a nasty greenish blue, although the hot spray of the shower helped. Cracked he thought, not broken.

He put on a clean pair of boxers, nixed the idea of food, left a small light on, and crawled into the second bed, after having made sure his gun was within reach and the child still hadn’t moved. _He hadn’t._

_He was in the cupboard again. Waiting for people who were not coming. People who would never come. But he could hear a sound in the stuffy place. A cry. Was that him? Crying? He never cried that day. And never cried again. But the cries wouldn’t stop. And were getting louder and louder…_

Mando opened his eyes.

_The cries._

He automatically reached for his gun, then remembered where he was.

 _The child_.

The crying was coming from the child, not an enemy.

Mando switched on another light – it was still completely dark outside. The kid had been moving around, but thankfully didn’t seem to have fallen. He was sitting up in the middle of the huge bed, rubbing his eyes and crying in earnest.

“Hey, hey kid, it’s okay,” he told him softly, approaching cautiously.

But it wasn’t okay, and the kid was crying harder.

He sat on the bed next to him and stroked his soft curls, hoping it would have an effect. The child removed his hands from his eyes and raised them over his head instead once he saw Mando. Used to the gesture by now, he took him in his arms, and the tiny lump kept on shedding warm tears against his neck.

“It’s okay, everything’s okay,” he shushed him, stroking his head and back in calm circles.

“ _Todo esta bien._ _Estás a salvo, tesoro_ ,” he added when the sobs still wouldn’t stop, and it seemed to work better, so Mando continued reassuring him in Spanish, trying and failing to remember what his mother would say to him when he had a nightmare. She’d been gone for 30 years, and there had never been a day when he hadn’t spared a thought for her, even a very small one. But that night, holding the child against his chest, trying to stop his tears and make him go back to sleep, he was missing her cruelly, and wishing he could ask for her advice.

The next time he woke up wasn’t to cries but to a sore neck. He’d fallen back to sleep on the kid’s bed, and said kid was still dozing on his chest, quite happily it seemed. Mando groaned and moved slowly, removing the toddler carefully and placing him back on the mattress. He stood up and rolled his shoulders, hoping to ease the tension in them. He knew there was no going back to sleep for him now, but the alarm clock only read a few minutes after five.

He grabbed the tablet from his gym bag, and used the complimentary half hour of Wi-Fi to check a few news websites. It didn’t take him long to find what he had been afraid to see.

“Shit.”

They had to leave, now. The manager had barely seen his face, and hadn’t seen the kid at all, but it was not safe to linger. He also needed to ditch the car.

It turned out Moff _did_ have influence over the State police. Although the news alert only appeared on Californian outlets for now, there was his name, and his picture, and the description that he was “an ex US Air Force Captain, armed and dangerous, who had kidnapped an 18 months old boy from a Los Angeles clinic and should be approached with caution”.

“Shit!”

There was no name or description for the child, and they apparently hadn’t been spotted driving North in the stolen SUV, but that didn’t mean some people wouldn’t call the kindly provided helpline number. The photo was old, from his army days, and he’d lost weight since and grew facial hair, yet he was certain it wouldn’t fool most cops.

Mando didn’t waste another minute, and quickly packed their belongings and dressed. The kid still seemed dead to the world, and he barely woke up when he put on his sweatpants, socks, and shoes. He added the brown hoody for good measure over his onesie, thinking he’d be more comfortable in that in the car and hoping the hood, cute as it was, would hide his features.

His gym bag over his right shoulder, the kid against his left side, a gun at his belt and the ball cap firmly on his head, Mando quietly exited the room. He left the key on the door and was glad to see that the manager’s office showed no light. He strapped in the sleepy kid and left the motel parking lot with his headlights off. Dawn was less than two hours away and he needed to find a new car.

He drove aimlessly at first, then saw signs for Buchanan Field Airport. Though there were no flights at this hour, the long-term parking lots were still accessible. He didn’t have the time to do a proper canvas, but the further he drove, the less there seemed to be any sign of security cameras. There was a good chance he’d still be caught on one, but he hoped to be far away by then.

This time, he didn’t pick a car with a child seat, and simply looked for the most inconspicuous vehicle. He settled on a ten-year-old run of the mill sedan, parked next to it, and had it opened in record time. He moved their stuff in the new car, and placed the kid, who seemed drowsy but awake, in the back, while he proceeded to move the child seat.

One of the reasons that had motivated Mando to join the army when he turned 18 was that they could pay for his studies. Something he would have never managed on his own. And they had, and he’d completed a BSE from Arizona State University in Electrical Engineering. Now that he had left the armed forces, he had managed to get the funds for a second online degree, and was currently – if all went well, which he now clearly doubted – just 3 months away from earning a MS in Industrial Engineering. Needless to say, he thought he was starting to know machines and how they worked pretty well. He could fix airplanes. Assemble rifles with his eyes closed. Pilot a helo in the dead of night while under heavy fire. But disassembling then reassembling a child seat? Apparently, no.

Mando groaned, and sweated and cursed in all the languages that he knew while working. The child was giggling. It took almost an hour, during which he was tempted about a hundred times to either look for another car that had a child seat, or simply leave without one. But a cursory check had told him that the former solution was going to be hard, while the latter would be dangerous. There was now a likely chance they might have to escape some tight spots, and he didn’t want the kid harmed in the process.

So he kept on pestering and tinkering, and eventually got the seat set up. The toddler was now wide-awake, so he handed him a bagel, took one for himself, and started driving once more.

The fuel tank was full and the car was thankfully driving well, but he made one more stop outside of Concord to check his map. Mando was tensed – he knew he was racing against the clock. He needed to cover as many miles as possible before daylight. The only good news was that today was the 4th of July. Most people wouldn’t be going to work. But the police would still be patrolling and he would have to avoid all major roads and hubs like the plague. Which wouldn’t be easy at first since he needed to cross San Pablo Bay. He decided to reach his destination, Bolinas, going the long way round – crossing the water now and hopefully leave Vallejo behind him quickly enough, rather than driving all the way to Richmond to go over San Francisco Bay. It would take longer, but they had more chances to arrive safely.

 _If he was home_.

Mando couldn’t allow himself to think that wouldn’t be the case for now. He’d worry about it once he was there. He just couldn’t function otherwise at the moment, which in itself was one more cause of worry.

The kid seemed to have none of Mando’s reservations, and didn’t pick up on the anxious mood. Quite the contrary – he was babbling happily, either munching on his bagel or pointing out the other cars outside once there was enough light, and listing their colors. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. After a while, Mando felt his shoulders relax, and played the game with him, correcting him when he was wrong and teaching him new words.

They reached Bolinas around ten. They had seen several patrol cars, and Mando had held his breath each time, but they hadn’t been stopped. The tiny residential coastal city, which boasted 1620 inhabitants, was just the way his friend had described it. Which was a good thing, because there were no clear road signs to access it. To say the community enjoyed a reclusive lifestyle wasn’t that much of a stretch. But looking at the wood paneled houses, the quiet streets and peaceful bay, Mando could understand why – he wouldn’t want to be disturbed or gentrified here either.

He eventually found Agate Beach, but his search stopped there – that’s all the USAF Colonel had told him about where he lived when he wasn’t on tour. Where he had tried to spend all his 4th of Julys since he was born.

Mando parked and had a look around. There were several houses, and no way to know which one was his friend’s. As he was contemplating his next course of action – namely, knocking on doors and hoping he wouldn’t be recognized if he got the wrong one – someone beat him to it, standing on the porch of the house directly to his right.

He hadn’t seen him for three years, but there was no mistaking that silhouette.

“Hello, Paz,” he said.


	6. Dare not speak his name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was more difficult to write. Sorry about the delay! It's double the size of the previous ones to make up for it. :)

The first punch took him by surprise, but the second didn’t. The force behind the blows him to his knees, and he waited for the next hit to land from his prone position. But nothing happened, so Mando raised his eyes towards the towering figure.

“I should make you call me Colonel Vizla, you punk,” he barked, his fists still clenched. Then just as quickly, his shoulders dropped, and his glare lost most of its intensity. Paz turned his back to him, and started walking towards his house once more. Mando was frozen on the spot, his mind slowly starting to catch up with his body and registering the pain.

“What are you waiting for? Get your ass off the ground and bring the kid inside,” yelled the man who might still be his friend after all, never turning back to check what he was doing. He didn’t have to, Mando was following his orders exactly.

The house looked big from where he was standing at the entrance, unsure of what was expected of him now. It faced the sea and he could smell salt in the air, coming from the opened sliding door that led to a deck. He put his bag and the kid on the ground, but the little one had decidedly picked up on the heavy atmosphere this time, and stayed glued to his leg, his small hands around his knee.

“In here!” he heard coming from his left, in a room he couldn’t see. Mando tried moving in that direction but the kid still wouldn’t budge, so he took him in his arms again.

The room turned out to be the kitchen, and Paz was standing over the counter, a bag of frozen peas in front of him.

“For your face,” he simply said.

Thinking it was best to follow his lead for now – it came easily and naturally for him after all – he sat the kid on the counter, and placed the cold bag against the left side of his face. He winced immediately.

“Yeah, you’re bleeding a bit,” Paz confirmed, “but it looks like someone had a head start, wonder why…”

The taller man wasn’t apologetic, and Mando didn’t expect him to be. Still, trust Paz to punch the daylights out of him but to provide some relief afterwards, even it was just in the form of a glorified ice pack. He would have smiled if his bleeding lower lip had allowed him to – some things never changed. It wasn’t the first time he was on the receiving end of his former superior’s punches, and it was reassuring somehow to see it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Something to do with my face, I think,” Mando said, surprising himself with the banter. But Paz nodded in acknowledgment.

“Should I get something for the boy? Maybe some juice?” he suggested, since said boy had been sitting quietly and a bit fearfully for a little while, now.

“Sure,” agreed Mando, trying to work his jaw. There didn’t seem to be anything broken, but man had he forgotten how strong his mentor was. He sat down on a bar stool and placed the kid next to him. He welcomed the juice and even managed to drink it without spilling too much of it from the glass. That earned Paz a small smile, which the imposing USAF Colonel took to heart. Mando wiped the blood from his lip with a tissue, checked one more time that all his teeth were still there, then looked up at Paz.

“So where do you wanna start, kid?”

Paz was only eight years his senior. But ever since he met him two decades ago during Operation Allied Force in Serbia, he’d been “kid”. Especially when he’d done something wrong or stupid. And that was definitely the case, now.

This was a valid question, and it took Mando a while to pick the right beginning for his story. When he found the child? When he left the military three years ago? Truly, there was only one place he could start with.

“I never did say much about my childhood, did I?”

“That’s a bit of an understatement, yeah. You seemed happy enough listening to me going on about mine. And good thing that you did apparently, because you found me.”

“I didn’t know where else to go, thank you for not sending me…us away.” Paz harrumphed at that, then silently gestured for him to carry on.

“At the time, I didn’t think my stories would make very good conversation,” he hedged, still trying to find it in him to speak plainly and tell the truth.

“You always were a quiet one anyway.”

Mando nodded, letting himself be distracted by the toddler who was playing with the discarded bag of peas.

“You wouldn’t be the first kid joining the army after a shitty childhood.”

“More like running away from it in my case, until it caught up to me again,” Mando admitted.

“When you left, three years ago,” Paz surmised. Mando acquiesced, knowing very well that he owed his old friend a better explanation, but drowning in an endless spiral of guilt, shame and fear.

“Do you know how close you came to get a less-than honorable discharge?” Paz asked angrily, clearly about to go on a roll. “You were just a few years off from being retired, if you wanted to,” Mando nodded at this, contrite.

“And you’d just been made Captain, thanks in great parts to me.” More nodding from Mando, who didn’t know what else to do.

“You pissed off a lot of people!” Paz concluded, cutting his diatribe short, Mando barely suppressing a wince at the level of his voice. The kid had frozen on his seat, looking distraught and on the verge of tears. When the sob came, it was almost silent and remorseful. Mando took him in his arms, and the little one came willingly, burrowing against his shoulder. He almost expected Paz to accuse him of using the kid as a shield, preventing him from fessing up – and he’d be justified, really. Instead, he backed off with a muttered expletive, and turned towards the fridge.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Huh, we had a bagel this morning,” Mando said, taken aback by the change of direction.

“You’re still living on the three Bs? Bagels, burgers and bananas?”

Mando shrugged.

“That’s not healthy. And you lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you.”

Mando refrained from commenting on Paz’s own weight, but he was apparently an open book, as his mentor snorted.

“I expected you to arrive last night, so I stayed up and woke up late this morning. I was just about to make breakfast. Pancakes sound good?”

To say that he was touched that Paz had been waiting for him wouldn’t be covering half of it, so Mando stayed silent on the subject.

“How did you know?” he asked instead.

“I might be on holidays, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch the news. So, pancakes?” he pressed.

“Yeah, thanks, Pa… I mean, Colonel Vizla,” he quickly corrected himself.

“I was joking about that,” he replied, although Mando was only half-convinced. He was far from being the first person to have noticed that Paz’s name meant “peace” in Spanish – and many had sniggered _way_ behind his back that it was highly ironical for a soldier – but the name had nonetheless always evoked a feeling of calm and serenity in him. He knew it was actually Polish in origin, and pronounced differently, yet the name had always held more meaning to him. That wasn’t something he could easily express to his former superior though, even if part of him thought that Paz was aware of it.

“And you didn’t think I was just gonna let one of my best elements simply vanish into thin air? I put a flag on your name. Discreetly, of course. But I’ve kept my tabs on you.”

Mando stopped stroking the child’s back at Paz’s words, and the little one complained, although his tears had already ceased by then.

“You what?”

“I know where you live in L.A., that you kept your pilot license up to date and that you’re working on a Master of Science in Industrial Engineering from ASU. What are you hoping to accomplish with that, by the way? And what else have you been doing, apart from the obvious?” he asked, eyeing the kid.

It took a while for Mando to absorb his words, and understand what he meant with the last part.

“That’s not my son,” he said, in an unexpectedly hurt tone.

“No?” Paz voiced, evidently not convinced, especially since the child was clinging fiercely to his neck.

“No, I’ve had him with me for less than two days. I just…found him,” he justified himself lamely.

“So this isn’t a case of you running off with your kid because your ex or whatever is threatening to leave the country or something?”

“No!” he denied loudly, offended that his mentor would think him capable of being in such a situation. Even when his situation was frankly a lot worse than that.

“And we are not expecting an angry mom coming though those doors any time soon?” Paz added, although he now seemed to be accepting Mando’s defense, especially when he saw and heard his reaction.

“I actually wish there were,” he sighed “but I’m pretty sure his parents are dead.” Mando had added that last part very quietly, although he knew the child wouldn’t understand. He was back at stroking his back in soothing circles and gradually, he managed to separate him from his chest, and sat him back on the counter. It was Paz’s turn to be struck dumb.

“I should change him, is there a bathroom I can use somewhere?” Mando asked, standing up. “I have all the stuff I need,” he added.

Paz nodded and pointed him in the right direction, mumbling something about making pancakes.

It was a relief for Mando as well to change the kid – he’d needed a break from his talk with Paz. He really should have done it earlier, but he’d been focused on arriving as quickly as possible to Bolinas that morning. Mando didn’t know who he was reassuring, speaking almost nonsense Spanish to the kid as he was divesting him of his dirty diaper, cleaning him, applying cream, putting him in a new diaper and clothes, but the mechanical motions that were slowly starting to become more natural soothed him and centered him. The child had always been more responsive to Spanish, but Mando hadn’t really let himself say more than a few words to him. It wasn’t a language he was used to speak any more. Although he had opportunities to speak Spanish every day of the week in L.A., and with most of the other members of his gang, he still chose English, even when he was addressed in Spanish. And especially for profanity or vile words, which accounted for a lot of it. Spanish was the language of his parents – beautiful, and almost sacred. He wouldn’t dishonor it and what it represented to him. But it was different with the kid, and words that used to only echo in his mind or in his dreams came more and more easily.

Both the child and him were a lot calmer when they exited the bathroom, and Mando felt ready to start his conversation with Paz again in the kitchen. But he found him on the deck outside, setting the table. He’d piled cushions on a chair for the toddler, and the vision of the pancakes seemed to please him immensely – he might still let Paz become his friend, especially if he kept on plying him with food. Mando was similarly reminded that he was hungry, although the smell of coffee was even more enticing.

They sat down and ate, Mando cutting small pieces for the child, who managed to get most of the pancake that was bigger than his head to start with in his mouth.

“More, _papá_ ,” he asked, a big fan of maple syrup. Mando guessed speaking Spanish to him hadn’t been such a bright idea after all, and under Paz’s knowing look, he corrected the kid again, this time in English.

“I’m not ‘ _papá_ ’, kid, I’m…”

“Try ‘dada’ instead, boy,” suggested Paz, jumping on the opportunity when Mando couldn’t come up with a suitable name quickly enough.

“Paz, what the f…” he started, then stopped himself when the kid happily asked “More, dada!”.

Paz burst out laughing, the loud guffaw making the child jump at first, then he copied him with a quieter giggle. Mando simply groaned, and poured more maple syrup on the kid’s pancake. That was another thing he hadn’t forgotten about Paz – the man just _loved_ making his life difficult on purpose.

It was almost as if they had both decided to pretend Mando was simply visiting his old friend, for the rest of the meal. The kid went on exploring the deck under his watchful eye after he was done eating his pancake, and Paz started telling him about what had been going on in the squadron, about the people who had left and those who were still there, about the garrison in Pope Field, North Carolina and about some operations halfway across the world. Mando stayed silent, only adding a few words here and there or nodding for him to carry on – not just because it was his usual way, but because he wanted to take in everything Paz was telling him. He hadn’t expected to be so starved of news from his old life, but he was. And Paz knew exactly what this was doing to him.

The toddler had sat down on the deck during a lull in their conversation, and started rubbing his eyes. Mando was getting better at recognizing most of his habits, and could tell he needed a nap. It was also heating up outside with the midday sun over them.

Paz told him where to find the guest room, where he placed the child on the bed, surrounding him with pillows once more so that he wouldn’t fall.

“You’re all sticky, _cariño_ ,” he complained half-heartedly, using a wet-wipe to clean his face and hands, grumbling internally for having reverted to Spanish again.

“Yes, dada,” replied the kid with a sleepy grin, and Mando shook his head in dismay at his mentor’s antics.

He found said mentor in the kitchen, and accepted the fresh cup of coffee he handed him.

“Go in the living room where it’s cooler, I’ll join you in a minute,” Paz told him. Mando nodded absently, still lost in the world the Colonel had recreated for him outside, and puzzling over the new word in the kid’s vocabulary.

The room he entered didn’t help his predicament. Mando was immediately drawn to a bookcase covered in frames. The place had been Paz’s grandfather's, and he saw many family pictures. Paz growing up on the beach right outside. His sister, who he’d met once, and who now worked as a Unit Supply Specialist. His little brother, who had died young, and whom Mando had sometimes wondered if he was replacing in his friend’s mind. Parents and cousins who looked a bit like him, many who had also served or were still in active duty. Friends from the USAF Mando knew and friends he didn’t. In and out of uniforms. At weddings, parties, or in faraway countries. A picture in particular caught his eye, and he picked up the frame. Two men in sage green flight suits standing in front of a Lockheed C-130 Hercules, helmets under their arms, faces sweaty and grinning at the camera. With a pang, Mando remembered that yes, he’d been happy then. Very happy.

“I was your co-pilot that day,” said Paz behind him. Mando hadn’t heard him enter the room.

“Yeah, I remember,” he replied, still trying to see if his eyes in the picture told him something else.

“The mission was shit, though,” Paz added, and Mando smiled realizing that no, his eyes weren’t hiding anything else. There was just joy there. He put the frame back where it was carefully, wondering why he’d never kept pictures.

“You were a great pilot, kid,” his former superior said to his back, and Mando was almost tempted to deck him, to lash out, because this was just too much for him to handle. Instead, he drank some coffee and turned from the pictures.

Paz was sitting down, his back to the window, which would allow Mando to face the seascape outside. Nice of him, he thought, except nothing would make the conversation they were about to have any easier. At least, the kid was sleeping soundly, and he’d be a bit rested if they had to make a hasty exit. He had no idea how Paz would react after all. He’d be happy if his only reaction was simply to punch him some more.

“The reason I never told you or anyone about my childhood isn’t that it was shitty,” Mando started as soon as he sat down, the coffee cup warming his clammy hands, “I mean, it _was_ shitty, for the most part, but that’s not it.”

“It was a pretty normal childhood until I was seven, and then it wasn’t,” he continued, Paz completely silent. “I know I’ve blocked some of it now, and that I should have more memories of that time, but I _do_ remember that my father worked in an office, and my mother in a library. I went to school, I had friends, we would go to the cinema during the weekends, normal things. Everything just _felt_ normal. Except in the last few days, when they seemed to get scared about something. It might have been going on for longer than that, but I was just a kid, and that’s what I remember.”

He drank some more coffee to order his thoughts. He’d never recounted it before to anyone, and it was a lot more difficult than he had expected to simply transfer what was deeply ingrained in his mind into words.

“It was a weekday, late afternoon. My father had come home from work earlier than usual. He seemed distressed, and he spoke to my mom, but I don’t know what it was about. All I know, is that they hid me in the cupboard upstairs, and told me not to come out under any circumstances.”

Mando breathed in.

“So I stayed there. For a little while. And then I heard people come into the house, yell things I couldn’t make out, then there were loud noises. Deafening. I had no idea what they were then, just that they were final, because there were no other noises after that for a long time. For a very long time, actually.”

And out.

“It was daylight outside when the man came, so I guess I must have fallen asleep at one point, but I can’t remember. He told me to come out and that it was safe, now. I was hungry, so I got out, and he took me in his arms and said that I should close my eyes once we got downstairs. But I didn’t, and I’m glad, because at least that meant I could be certain they were dead.”

Mando paused there, expecting questions. It took Paz a while to say anything.

“Who was the man?” he asked, just as Mando was about to continue.

“I’d never seen him before. He spoke Spanish to me so in my mind, that made it alright. He told me my parents were dead once we were outside and I pretended that I didn’t know already.”

Paz smiled without humor.

“My parents had fled their country before I was born and I had no other family in the city. We were living in Highland Park, in north east Los Angeles, and the man drove me south, to neighborhoods I had never seen until then. Before we got out of the car, he told me I had to change my name, that I could never use my real name again because I was in danger. That I could end up like my parents if I did. So he named me.”

“Wait, are you saying you’ve been using a fake name all along?”

“It’s not fake to me anymore, but yeah.”

“What’s your real name, then?” he asked.

Mando stayed silent, although part of him wanted to say it out loud.

“You can’t even say it?” Paz uttered incredulously, shaking his head. Mando shrugged, and the older man gestured for him to continue, although he could tell his story was starting to make little sense to him. He was trying to only mention the necessary bits, but still had to give enough details to make it realistic. It sounded like a children story because it was – most of what he remembered from that time had been idolized, preserved like an old film in sepia color. He’d done it in order to remain sane, choosing to forget and edit out the really bad parts.

“The people he took me to lived in some big community, in several houses on a small street, and there were adults but also a lot of other kids. Some who had parents, and some who didn’t, like me. I was made to feel welcomed and given everything I needed: food, a bed, friends my age to play with, a whole new neighborhood to discover, and more than one mom to patch me up when I hurt myself. The man who’d rescued me came and went, and the other kids told me he was like their leader.”

“You never went to the police?” Paz interrupted, frowning.

“Why would I? I was seven, and I knew my parents were dead. The people I was with were nice,” Mando explained easily.

“Who were those people?” he asked.

“I didn’t know then, and I didn’t ask. After a while, I was allowed to go back to school, with my new name. And it felt almost like normal again.”

“They just…created an identity for you?”

“Yeah, easily. I had a social security number and everything.” Paz snorted, then realized Mando was serious.

“I was the nephew or the cousin of other members of the community.”

“ _What_ community? Mando, or whatever your name is, what _was_ this place?”

“I was ten when I figured it out, I think. I followed some of the older boys one night. I was good at sneaking out and staying quiet. They’d go stand at corners in the neighborhood, while others would be on the lookout.”

“Doing what?”

“Dealing.”

The penny dropped for Paz.

“I didn’t know it was drugs then, but I could tell they were selling stuff.”

“So the community was…”

“A gang, yes,” Mando confirmed. “ _Nuestra Familia_ , one of the biggest criminal organizations in California, and most of the West Coast. They deal in drugs, guns, murder and extortion.”

Paz’s incredulity had turned into shock.

“And you…took part in all of that?”

“They didn’t have me do much before I was twelve or thirteen. But I could run pretty fast, so they had me as a spotter in the neighborhood. Reporting cops, or suspicious activity. I wasn’t too bad at math either, so they would send me with older boys to count money sometimes. Easy stuff at first…”

Mando took a small break, looking at the coffee table instead of Paz – it helped not to see his reaction any longer.

“Then as I grew up, I started having more and more responsibility. The boss – the man who’d rescued me – always had the right word to convince me, and he quickly found out that there was something that would always work with me.”

“What?”

“He waited until I was fifteen – that’s the age you can decide to join the gang. And he told me what had happened to my parents. I’d always wondered of course, but I was too scared to ask. I’d never set foot in my old neighborhood again. I had guessed by then that their death was gang-related, and I was right: they’d been targeted by _La Eme_ , the Mexican mafia. A bigger and more powerful gang than ours.”

“ _Ours_?” Paz seethed. Mando could only sigh in reply.

“You have to understand how gangs work – it’s all about territory. Territory in jail, where they operate the most, and territory in the streets. If you control drugs and guns dealings in a particular neighborhood, then it’s _yours_. And no one can take it from you. The community in South L.A. was _my_ neighborhood, _my_ family, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do to protect them.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, almost nothing,” conceded Mando.

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’m not proud of who I was back then, far from it, but I never took out a life except in self-defense or to protect others.”

“But you did kill people. Before the army.” Paz didn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

“Yes,” Mando admitted, “and I’ve killed again since I left the Air Force.”

“But what changed, then? They seemed to have you brainwashed pretty good.”

“They did,” he conceded, not blind on that aspect, “but they wanted to send me to Baja. And I knew that when the kids went there they came back changed – they were turned into killers over there. Piled with drugs, and trained.”

“And you chose the army instead?” Paz marveled in consternation.

“I even asked the boss before I enlisted.”

“Why? You were eighteen, they didn’t own you,” he harped on, although he was missing the point.

“Oh, they did _own_ me as you put it. But they were my only family. I wasn’t free to do anything without the boss’ blessing. But to my surprise, he thought that it was a good idea. That I could learn stuff in the army to teach the others. To this day, I have no idea if he actually believed that or if he just let me go.”

Mando sat back against the sofa, glad to be done with this part of the story, but fearful of Paz’s continued silence.

“Then they left you alone?”

“For the most part, yes. I avoided going back to L.A. during permissions and they only asked for some of my paycheck. And you know the rest, the army, then the Air Force, then…”

“Then you left.”

“Then I left…”

“Why?” Paz asked, pouring all his disbelief and his ire behind that single word. Asking the question he’d wanted answered for the last three years.

“The same reason as always – they _owned_ me. And they’d decided they could make my life miserable if I didn’t do as they said. The choice was simple: either I left the USAF quickly but on my own terms, with an honorable discharge – hopefully – or if I took too long they could make sure I was discharged on their _own_ terms.”

“They were blackmailing you,” Paz translated.

“Best case scenario, they had enough to have me court-martialed. With stuff that I _did_ do before joining the army, and even worse stuff that others had done, and that they could easily pin on me. But who would be interested to find out if it was true or not? They were just messing with me, and they knew they would succeed.”

“But why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you turn to us, or the police?” he erupted.

“Why do you think, Paz? I was just about to lose everything. All my achievements, all the respect… It was the only way to keep all that alive, even if it was just a memory. _You_ , all of you in the squadron and in the airborne division before that, became my second family. And I preferred to leave you than lose your esteem.”

“ _Fuck_ our esteem, we would have been there, we wouldn’t have deserted you.”

Mando shook his head, his turn to be unconvinced.

“As for the police, I’d learned early on not to trust them, and the past few days and what happened with the kid are proof that I was right.”

Paz stood up, walking in circles. He did that when he was about to burst.

“So what have you been doing for the last three years, then?”

Mando stayed on the sofa, doing his best to remain calm. He was almost done with his story.

“I finally figured out that they needed a pilot to fly supply from Mexico, and I was the best candidate.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , tell me you haven’t been doing that!” That was Paz’s loudest outburst since the start of their conversation, and Mando couldn’t blame him. Somehow, dealing drugs and killing in self-defense was one thing. But using his piloting skills for nefarious purposes was just inconceivable to a fellow airman.

“I haven’t, because shortly after I came back, the boss died. He was sick, and I think that was the main reason he wanted my return.”

“Why?” pressed Paz, still loud enough for Mando to worry that he would wake the child.

“I don’t know,” Mando admitted. He couldn’t reconcile that a man who had saved him, taken him in, then demanded awful deeds from him before accepting to let him go only to snatch him back when it pleased him, would also wish to have him close to him when he died. “I’ve more or less been back to my role before I joined the army, but I’ve managed to keep up with my studies and my piloting, as you’ve found out. The new boss is a lot laxer in his management, so I’ve had more wiggle room than in the past. I was starting to formulate a plan when the boy…”

“God, I can’t hear about the boy, now,” interrupted Paz. “I need to think, this is just too much, and I don’t know what the _fuck_ I can believe from what you’ve just told me. It’s just too… Too crazy, kid, even for you.”

Mando stood up, thinking he’d been dismissed.

“We can leave tonight, don’t worry about it,” he told him, hoping this was still a possibility.

“And go where?” asked Paz, looking straight at him, and not without malice. “Stay put, there’s nowhere for you both to go right now. And it’s the 4th of July, good luck on finding anywhere to sleep tonight around here.”

Mando nodded, aware of this, but knowing that he would still leave if he had no choice. He’d told Paz the truth, all of it, and it hadn’t been enough. He didn’t believe him. There was nothing else he could do and he wasn’t sure more time would help convince the older man.

“I need to go to the store before it closes for the celebrations tonight. You need anything?”

Mando was taken aback – this was the last thing he’d expected from Paz, although the man was famous for changing subjects of conversations to throw people. But he’d just switched from calling him a liar to ask him what his favorite flavor of chips was, basically.

“Stuff for the boy?” he pressed.

Still thinking that Paz was having him on and was about to go to the police as soon as he left the house, he asked for diapers and wet-wipes – they were running low. Perhaps having him rummaging through baby stuff at the store would give him enough time to make his escape quietly. Paz nodded, clearly nonplussed at the request, and was just about to exit the room when he suddenly turned back towards him.

“Just tell me one thing, kid. Why did you stay with them? After all this time? Even when you knew that what you were doing was wrong? Even when they betrayed you and blackmailed you and asked you to do horrible things for them? I just can’t understand that.”

Curiously, this question, more than all the others he had asked him before made Mando angry. Not believing him was one thing, but it was as if he hadn’t been listening. Hadn’t _comprehended_ what this had all been about. All his life and all his struggles. He raised his hands to his face, wincing at the contact over his bruises and cuts and noticing that he was shaking in rage.

“How could you understand?” he said, his voice gradually becoming louder, “How could you understand, when all your life you’ve had this?” pointing at the bookcase covered in picture frames. “Parents, grand-parents, siblings, cousins, friends… All those people who were there for you and encouraged you and supported you no matter what. I had _none_ of that, and I’m not saying this because I want your pity. I just want you to try and _see_ things from my perspective.”

Mando was breathing hard now, and sweating. Paz’s expression was unreadable.

“ _Those_ people who betrayed me and blackmailed me and made me do horrible things as you said, they’re all I have. They made me who I am, for better or worse. And yes, the military _was_ my second family, and part of me _died_ when I had to give it up. But I _had_ to give it up. Not for some bullshit conception of honor or pride. Because they’re _this_ ”, gesturing to the pictures again. “They’re the family I _have_ not the one I _chose_.”

He finally stopped and left the room, not wanting to see or hear Paz’s reaction. He was done, empty, there was nothing more he could say. He went to the guest room and a few minutes later he heard the front door close.

The kid was still asleep, looking peaceful, not having moved an inch. Mando felt as though he’d been speaking for hours, but it had only taken half an hour at most. Half an hour, to rehash all his sorry life. He didn’t think he’d ever spoken uninterrupted for that long before. Especially about anything so personal. Still sweating profusely, he removed his T-shirt and paced the room, trying to calm himself. He needed to get his breathing under control – he’d never suffered a panic attack before but he imagined it felt like that. He couldn’t get enough air and his throat felt more and more constrictive. What the hell was he going to do? There was no one else to turn to, now. No one who could help. He was on his own, it was just him and the kid.

 _Breathe in, breathe out_. He told himself. Mando had seen it happen many times to other soldiers, and he’d been the one providing relief, calming them. And now it was happening to him.

He sat on the bed, careful not to wake the boy, and observed him. His little chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Not a care in the world. This eventually did the trick, and he copied the same breathing pattern, lying quietly next to him. Rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling...

Mando opened his eyes, unsure how much time had elapsed since he closed them. The sun was still shining outside, behind the almost see-through curtains. He wondered if Paz was back. Or if he’d gone to the police.

The child had woken up, too. He’d turned towards him from his nest of pillows, looking serious.

“Dada,” he said, raising his arms. Mando didn’t react to the word, and didn’t reply anything. He grabbed him under his arms and placed him over his chest, not moving from his lying position on the bed.

Chest to chest, he could feel his little heart beat, faster than his own. Still, it was oddly reassuring. Mando let him explore his face with his small hands. His movements were more careful and measured than he expected and he didn’t flinch. He was babbling incoherently but not in sadness or fear. So he just let him be, and stayed silent. He still felt hollowed out, and incapable of saying anything. What would be the point?

The kid was starting to get restless, pushing with all his surprising strength against his chest.

“Up, up, up!”

Mando preferred it when he couldn’t understand his words. He sighed, wondering if the child was hungry or thirsty, and got up, aware that he couldn’t stay hidden forever. He had to face whatever was waiting for him outside the door, and he couldn’t let his situation impact the kid more than it already did.

He left the room and went to the kitchen. The toddler had nodded when he’d uttered the word “water”. Paz was nowhere to be seen, and the clock on the microwave told him he’d been gone for two hours. Mando wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He placed the boy on the counter, and proceeded to find him a glass for his drink. He was helping him to it when Paz entered, carrying heavy shopping bags.

It took a while for Mando to understand why Paz was looking at him so strangely. He seemed distressed, somehow. Then he remembered he hadn’t put his T-shirt back on, and he immediately felt self-conscious. He knew he wasn’t a pretty sight, with his chest, back and arms covered in scars and old wounds. Some that had not healed quite yet. The military was no place to be bashful about one’s physique – quite the contrary – but he’d been less damaged, then. Most marks had appeared in the last three years, and none of them held a nice memory. He’d been stabbed, cut, shot at and even burned on one occasion. He’d broken, sprained or cracked countless bones. His joints were wrecked. Few injuries had truly been life threatening, but they’d all left a reminder on his skin and in his mind.

Mando went back to helping the kid, who’d asked for more water. There was no point trying to hide, now.

“I got what you asked at the store,” Paz said neutrally.

“Thanks,” he answered in a similar tone.

“I had no idea there were so many types of diapers, so I got a selection.”

Mando couldn’t prevent a small smile at that.

“I also got us some stuff for a barbecue tonight,” he added, opening the fridge.

“A barbecue?”

“It’s the 4th of July,” reminded him Paz as if he was stupid.

“I know that,” Mando quickly countered, “but…”

“There should be enough food for a few days, I’m sure the boy can eat most of it,” he continued, placing countless items in the fridge. Meat, vegetables, eggs, beer…

“Paz…” Mando tried to start again.

He turned to him after he was done organizing stuff in the fridge. Paz was only 4 or 5 inches taller than him, but he’d always seemed bigger than that, somehow. That wasn’t the case at the moment, though, and he looked smaller, his eyes fixed on his upper left arm, which he knew displayed a particularly ugly gunshot wound.

“I’m sorry for not believing you, kid. I know it must have cost you to share your story with me. You still haven’t told me about your boy, and we need to figure out what to do. You both look like you could use some rest, and you can do that here. So stay,” he ended up saying.

A huge weight lifted from Mando’s shoulders, and he couldn’t trust his voice not to shake, so he simply nodded.


	7. Dedicated to all human beings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support! Small word of warning: there's more description of violence in this chapter, the rating is there for a reason.

The child woke him up again that night. Early morning. He wasn’t sure. His head was pounding because they’d overdone it a bit with Paz, who could still drink him – and anyone else – under the table. The kid had stayed up to watch the fireworks with them from the deck over the bay, and he had hoped it meant he would sleep the night. Mando had been worried the noise would frighten him, but Paz had insisted – he had to see it, it was tradition. And the little one had seemed to enjoy the colorful show, although he’d burrowed close to his chest after the loudest explosions.

Burrowing against his chest didn’t seem to be working, now. And Mando grumbled.

“ _¿Qué pasa, chico?”_ he asked him, after a few minutes of holding him didn’t seem to do the trick. He’d reverted back to Spanish to try and calm him, but what had worked the previous night didn’t seem to hold true anymore.

Mando stood from the bed, shushing him quietly, and walked to the kitchen on rubbery legs – mixing alcohol with punches to the face was never a good idea, he hurt everywhere. He was afraid the sobs would wake Paz, but if the snores coming from the other side of the house were any indication, he probably shouldn’t worry. Offers of milk, water, or food, didn’t work either, which made sense – the kid had devoured anything Paz grilled for them, probably eating his own weight in beef, grilled peppers and baked potatoes. Mando was surprised it hadn’t made him sick. He wondered if that was the case, and tried rubbing his tummy instead of his back. But there were no changes, warm tears were still running against his neck, and the little one was tiring himself out.

Thinking fresh air might help, he opened the sliding door quietly and went outside. Dawn was probably still a few hours away, and the night sky was impossibly dark. Mando sat on a deck chair, and placed the kid’s back against his chest.

“Look, look at the stars, _tesoro,_ ” he whispered over his whimpers. “Look how bright they are.”

Mando could never hope for such clear skies over L.A. But here, San Francisco lying far away down south and facing the ocean directly, they could almost pretend the galaxy was theirs for the taking. It was just the two of them and the stars. The crashing waves below only reinforcing the feeling of vastness and freedom.

His headache set aside for now, Mando quickly got his bearings and started listing constellations and stars in the west sky to the boy. He was a pilot again, rising above the clouds and setting his course. Flying at night had been part terrifying, part exhilarating the first few times. Then it became his favorite place on Earth. No matter which country he was taking off from, the stars would still be there to greet him. No matter how loud it could get in the cockpit over the sound of the engines and the instruments, everything seemed quieter at night. It was like showing reverence to ancient gods.

Reminiscing with Paz today had been painful, but in the silence of the night with the warming, slowly calming shape of the child against his chest, Mando let himself forget for a while.

He came to again to the sound of seagulls and a shiver. The sun had just risen, and Paz was standing over them.

“There you are, I couldn’t find you,” he said much too brightly for someone who’d insisted on a third round of whisky.

Mando opened his eyes sluggishly, the child mewling in complaint at the sound and movement.

“Are you sure you’re not related?” asked Paz, an eyebrow raised in wonder.

“What?” grumbled Mando, completely lost.

“The two of you look exactly the same waking up.”

Too sleepy for a witty remark on the merits of being a morning person, Mando groaned in reply.

“Go back inside and get some more sleep, I’m gonna move your car while it’s still quiet. No point leaving it here for it to be discovered. I know where to park it so that it won’t be found.”

“Child seat. Get the child seat, I need it,” he mumbled, standing up slowly and moving back to the guest room. He hoped the thing would prove as much a nightmare for Paz to remove as it had been for him. Petty, but deserved.

The third time he woke up was better. The kid was quietly babbling away around his pacifier from his small nest on the futon next to the bed, and he perked up immediately when he saw Mando slowly stand up. He still hurt just about everywhere, but his headache was gone.

He greeted the boy over his happy chorus of the name Paz had thought fit to teach him, and changed him before going to the kitchen. The coffee was still warm, so he got himself a cup while preparing a bottle for the kid. Armed with both, he went to the deck in search of Paz, who was pouring over some maps on the table.

“I’m never having kids,” announced Paz, not looking up.

Mando failed to understand until he saw the child seat on the floor next to him. Intact, but just.

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently, but Paz wasn’t having it, and grumbled something under his breath that sounded unsuitable with a child present.

Said child needed next to no help to drink his milk, but Mando still held the bottle for him and let him curl his small hand around his thumb. It was a peaceful distraction to delay the inevitability of having to figure out what to do.

Last night, Mando had related how he’d come across the kid and the machinations of the two gangs after him – what he understood, at least, which wasn’t saying much. It was an easier and shorter tale than the one he’d recounted earlier, and the beer had helped loosening his tongue. It had also felt good to bounce off ideas with someone else, even if the someone else in question tended to suggest impossible solutions, such as involving the police or the FBI. Mando was adamant that they couldn’t be trusted, and to prove his point, he found the picture of the Lieutenant he had seen with Moff in the tire shop, all of three days ago, on the LAPD website. He agreed that not everybody was crooked, but they needed some time to figure out who they could turn to. Buying some time meant staying mobile, this they both agreed on, and as secluded as Bolinas felt at the moment, he knew he had to leave sooner rather than later.

“What have you come up with?” he asked, the child done with his bottle and back to exploring the deck.

Paz had marked a road for him heading north. His maps were infinitely more precise than anything he could hope to buy and he refrained from asking where he got them.

“How big is your gang outside of California?” he replied.

“Depends which direction you’re going. Nevada is a big no if we want to stay hidden, Oregon a bit safer.”

“And I’m guessing Washington even safer than that?”

“Sure, but that means crossing two State lines, that’s too dangerous.”

“You got a better idea?” Paz inquired.

Mando didn’t. They’d come to a tentative conclusion last night that their best bet was still for him to head north, and to reach Paz’s sister, who lived near the Canadian border. The thousand miles journey would hopefully grant them enough time to figure out who to reach out to while remaining safe. Paz had said he’d take care of that task, and Mando knew he had better contacts than him, especially in the government. Part of him was weary of letting someone else make that kind of decisions for him, but this was Paz. He had trusted him with his life before, and never regretted it. Knowing that he was involved meant that he could breathe a little easier, something that he hadn’t allowed himself to do for longer than he cared to admit.

“Are you sure your sister is going to agree to this?” Mando asked, looking at the long journey waiting for him on the map with little trepidation.

“She likes you.”

“She saw me _once_. After you spent an hour basically warning me not to look her in the eye.”

“Well, she liked you.”

“You told me she just got married,” Mando pointed out.

“Yes, to a _Canadian_.” Paz made it sound like an insult.

Mando sighed, marveling at Paz’s relationship with his sibling. His sister was even scarier than him – in a good way, she was beautiful and fierce, but still. The woman owned her own forge and could shape metal at will. Something she did for _fun_ , when she wasn’t busy working for the army, managing supplies and equipment. He hadn’t needed Paz’s warning when he met her – she clearly knew her own mind and didn’t require outside intervention or input regarding whom she liked or didn’t like.

“Can you watch over the kid while I take a shower?” he queried, changing the subject.

“You haven’t eaten,” Paz noted.

“I had coffee.”

“That’s not eating, I made scrambled eggs, there’s still some left, I’m sure the boy would like some as well.”

Mando stayed silent. He wasn’t hungry – he rarely was. He had eaten plenty the previous evening, and the prospect of the journey awaiting them didn’t help.

“You need to take better care of yourself, kid. Do it here while you still can.”

“Shower first, then eating,” he conceded, not wanting to appear ungrateful.

The hot spray helped his sore muscles, and he told himself that he should stretch and exercise a bit before leaving Bolinas and being cooped up in a car for countless hours. Who knew what would be waiting for them? He wasn’t getting any younger and he hadn’t so much as done a push-up in three days. He was about to ask Paz when rejoining him on the deck if he thought the beach was safe enough for him to go for a run without being recognized, when he heard an almighty screech from the child.

Fearing the worst at first, he discovered Paz holding the child by his sides far above his head and making…airplane noises? He couldn’t leave them alone for ten minutes?

“Paz, that’s too high!” he complained, already picturing the kid falling and smashing his head on the hard wooden deck.

“He loves it!” he objected and yes, the squealing coming from the boy were definitely happy sounds.

“Paz! Paz!” the kid chanted when he eventually put him down.

Visibly chuffed to bits that the boy said his name, he carried him to the kitchen for a promised _real_ breakfast. Mando rolled his eyes but followed.

The rest of the day was spent quietly. Mando went for his run at Paz’s insistence that no one would bother him or take any notice, and the kid alternated between following his new best friend around and playing with old toys he had found for him in the garage. Late afternoon, when they had finally settled on the best route for him to complete – hopefully – his journey north, and Paz had persuaded him to wait until the next day before leaving, he suggested the boy deserved a trip to the beach. Mando was reluctant, given that his face was still easily available to anyone who would bother turning their TV on in California, but Paz eventually convinced him of the benefits of leaving in such a secluded community.

“Even if they recognize you, they won’t say anything to the police – they don’t trust them any more than you do,” he explained, as they were making their way down to a remote spot he knew on the bay.

“Do they know what you do for a living?” Mando countered, the child held safely against his left side.

“Sure,” Paz confirmed, “and they don’t give a shit.”

“On that subject, do you know where I could get a car? I can’t keep driving the one I came with, you were right to hide it.”

“By _getting_ you mean _stealing_ right?”

Mando shrugged. He’d been honest with him about that until then, and didn’t see why he should start lying now.

“You can take my car,” he announced.

“Paz…” he tried to cut in, unsuccessfully.

“I don’t need it, I can easily get a ride to SFO at the end of my break when I’ll have to report back.”

“I can’t accept that,” Mando objected.

“It’s better than you stealing another car, and I can write you a note and let my insurance know or something. Police officers would believe I willingly gave it to you if you’re pulled over.”

“That’ll be the least of my worries if I do get pulled over...”

“The car’s almost new, it’s fuel-efficient so you won’t have to stop for gas often, and I’d feel better if you had it, okay?” Paz concluded, stopping in his tracks. Mando could tell he was getting slightly cross, and since he knew better than making him full-on angry, he nodded, and sat the kid on the sand.

Their argument was quickly forgotten and they allowed themselves a break from serious considerations. For the kid’s sake, at least, Mando reasoned. It seemed that he had never been to the beach before, and once he accepted that no, sand was not for eating and yes, he could go a few steps in the water but only if someone was holding his hand, it seemed to make a big impression on him. Inglewood, if that was indeed the neighborhood he was from in Los Angeles, was quite close to the ocean, which made Mando sad: surely taking one’s child to the beach shouldn’t be a luxury, but maybe it had been for his parents. He felt uncomfortable stealing that experience from them – seeing the marvel and excitement shining in his eyes. Making sandcastles with the bucket and spade Paz had also found in the garage, and which dated back to his own childhood. Running after seagulls and jumping over the surf - Mando trying not to freak out when Paz encouraged him to go for bigger waves.

Carrying him back to the house after a couple of hours of reveling, all snuggled up in a beach towel wrapped around him tightly, Mando reckoned that whatever happened next, they’d always have this, the kid and him. He didn’t care that the toddler wouldn’t be able to remember it, he would hold the memory for him. Surely it still meant something.

They left the following evening.

Anxious, but rested at least, Mando intended to cover as many miles as possible during the night, with the kid sleeping in the back. Paz wouldn’t let him leave without a few extra gifts, including a satellite phone (Mando didn’t ask where it came from), more cash than he felt comfortable accepting (but eventually did when he saw the determined look in his eyes), a military-grade first aid kit (“let’s be honest, with that face of yours, you’re gonna need it”), as well as several more items (“gadgets”, Paz had said) placed in a bag he would check out later.

Mando also left something with his mentor: a URL to a private server and some login information he’d written on a piece of paper from memory.

“I can’t tell you what it is, but you’ll have to figure out who to send it to if you ever need to access it. In case I don’t make it, it might still protect the child.”

He could tell Paz didn’t like to entertain this train of thoughts – hell, he didn’t either – but he still accepted the scribbled note.

“It’s my insurance policy – I meant only to use it as a deterrent, but perhaps if…” he paused, realizing startlingly that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t reach the end of his journey, so to speak. The boy on the other end…that wasn’t something he wanted to envision.

“I got this, kid,” promised Paz, who didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Aim high… Fly-fight-win.”

 _Fly, fight, win_. They’d used to joke about this – the recently introduced addition to the Air Force motto, which sounded both too grand and too silly at the same time. Paz and him had never been big on mottos and preferred acts rather than words. But that particular evening, it resonated with his current situation a lot more than he expected, and he took it to heart.

Driving at night wasn’t as pleasant as flying, but a few hours in, once the sky got pitch dark, and the kid had definitely succumbed to deep sleep, Mando started to relax. He did have a long road ahead of him, but Paz’s car was comfortable. And although he was on his own in the vehicle, notwithstanding the boy, he was no longer _alone_ – his friend was helping. Mando knew he had already started making discreet calls today, but hadn’t wanted to inquire about them before leaving: he needed to focus on the road, and the road only. His mission was arriving in one piece with the child at Paz’s sister’s.

There were a lot more things he wished he’d had the time to say to his former superior. He’d never been very good at articulating his feelings, but surely words existed to express his gratitude. For having listened to him. For having _heard_ him, and still chosen to help. No matter what happened next – and he could start thinking that there might actually be a way out now, one where he didn’t end up either killed or in jail for the rest of his life – he’d never regret having confided in him. His story was no longer just his.

Lulled into a false sense of security, it took him a while the next morning to spot his tail. He had stopped once, just after having crossed the border into Oregon around 3AM, for refueling and a power 20 minute nap, and wondered if the van had started following him from there. He had two choices now – either he acknowledged the tail, and did his best to lose it quickly via alternative roads and possible reckless driving, or he pretended not to have noticed it, and studied its behavior.

He chose the latter, and after about half an hour, he was pretty sure he knew who was in the van. Two silhouettes in the front, two in the back. It had been a while, but he was quite certain the front passenger was Qin, which meant his sister Xi’an was in the back. The other two, he didn’t know: a bald guy was driving, and a huge hulk sat behind him. This was still _Norteños_ territory, then. They were affiliated to _Nuestra Familia_ , and he’d “collaborated” with them in the past, but it seemed that they didn’t hold him any allegiance. This was a further blow, as part of him had hoped Greef was the exception in his siding with _La Eme_. _Norteños_ ’s boss, Ran, had almost been a friend, once. A long time ago.

They were not far from the exit for Crater Lake National Park, which meant that despite the early hour – it was a little after seven, and the boy had just woken up – the roads could still get jammed with tourists and people on holiday anytime soon. He needed to make up his mind, and quickly.

“This is probably a bad idea, but let’s try it anyway, kid,” he said out loud. The toddler babbled something back, and Mando pretended he was agreeing with him.

He then picked up the satellite phone from the glove compartment, and dialed a number he had easily memorized – it appeared in red, just under a picture of his face on countless news networks, after all. The license plate of the van following them was also easy to recall, and he happily provided it to the person on the other end of the line. And yes, the road he had seen the van on, and the next exit road.

“It was just before the Crater Lake National Park sign, ma’am, I remember it well.”

Now he just had to wait. And hope that he hadn’t made a big mistake.

Tensed, his hands gripping the wheel tightly and his eyes lingering more in the mirrors than on the road ahead of him, he didn’t have to wait long. Once he was sure that the two patrol cars were indeed focusing on the van and forcing it to stop on the side of the road, he discreetly took the next exit, and started breathing a little easier. That had been a gamble, and he had actually learned something – the police was still interested in finding him, even outside California. Which meant the feds were now involved, as he had feared. The fact that they had arrived so quickly worried him – but there was no way he would have been able to take on four people on his own. If the kid hadn’t been with him, maybe. Still, even for him that would have been a bit reckless. The police was bound to find interesting stuff in their van, he was sure. They hadn’t come without any weapons.

He drove on for another hour, staying on the smaller road for the time being, then allowed himself a break at a deserted rest area. The kid needed changing, breakfast, and to stretch his legs for a bit. Paz had happily provided him with his favorite food, bagels and bananas, and the boy was his usual unfussy self, and ate what he gave him.

“We’ll make a proper stop somewhere once we cross the state line,” he promised him as he was putting him back in his seat over soft complaints. The border was four hours away and although the coffee was still somewhat lukewarm in his thermos, he’d been driving almost nonstop for eleven hours.

It felt good speaking to the kid, who couldn’t offer much in term of replies except for the few words he knew, but just hearing Mando's voice also seemed to settle him on the journey. He was too wired to feel the pull of sleep himself, and the next few hours passed quicker than he had expected. The barren scenery had turned into forests and small lakes, and they seemed to captivate the child as much as the baby carrots he got him to munch on around lunch time.

They crossed the Columbia River and entered Washington State around 2PM, and Mando took his time choosing a gas station that would also allow them to eat something more substantial. He steered clear of major chains or busy intersections, and got his wish near a small place called Castle Rock. He saw logging and dairy trucks parked beside the ancient looking café which doubled as a gas station, and thought it’d be a safe choice.

He was wrong, but he didn’t know it then.

The café was busier than he had expected at this time of day, but the lady looked pleasant enough and unconcerned at seeing him with the kid after he refueled the car. She got them a booth overlooking the parking lot – fine by Mando – and suggested cherry pie to go with his coffee for dessert, also fine by him. He ordered burgers for the both of them, knowing that the kid would at least eat the fries, and went in search of somewhere he could change him in the restroom while they waited for their food.

“Shit,” he couldn’t help uttering out loud, seeing that the changing table was in the ladies’. A woman seemed to guess his dilemma as she exited the room, and offered to guard the door for him while he took care of his kid, since there was no one else inside.

“It’s not often you see this, be my guest sir,” she told him with a smile. Mando was too stunned to do anything but go in and do as she'd suggested.

He was still slightly dazzled when he rejoined their booth, and thus didn’t notice the man looking at them from two tables over. Not having the road to focus on also meant that he was starting to feel how much gravity wanted to pull him down. His body was letting him know that he should just close his eyes and rest.

Rest quickly became the last thing on his mind when their food was brought over. Not because he was hungry – the kid on the other hand had started attacking his fries the minute his plate was placed in front of him – but because he had finally seen the man following the waitress’s movements. He looked young, barely old enough to order a beer, and yet there was no mistaking that stare. Mando had no idea if he was _Nuestra Familia_ , _Norteños_ or _La Eme_ , but there was no point ignoring the small movement of his head towards the restroom.

Maybe he just wanted to talk. _Right._

Mando asked the waitress to keep an eye on the kid for a few minutes, and followed the mysterious man after making sure no one else would be joining them.

He locked the door behind him, knowing it wouldn’t fool anybody for long, and kept his back against it, feeling the reassuring shape of his gun against his skin.

The young man cased the place, which told Mando he hadn’t been doing this for very long – there was no way anyone could be hiding in the two small stalls, and a quick circuit of the room when he entered should have told him that.

“What do you want?” he pressed, hoping he would quickly have an angle on the situation.

“The name’s Calican, Toro Calican,” the man said, still fidgety.

Great, did the kid think he was James Bond or something?

“And?” he settled on replying.

“I’m with _NF_ ,” he added confidently.

Instead of repeating the same question again, Mando simply raised his eyebrows.

“Greef is looking for you.” _No shit_ , he thought, but stayed silent. The kid was a talker, maybe he could glean some new info.

“I’m the only one who figured out you would be going north,” he announced.

“Not really,” Mando couldn’t help but reply this time, “but at least you’re speaking to me, so go ahead. Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What it is Greef has promised you for my return.”

“Greef just wants the kid,” he must have seen him tense at that, with the uncomfortable realization that he had left the child on his own behind the closed door. “But even if we’re not supposed to hurt you in the process, I’m sure giving him the both of you would help my case.”

This should have somehow pleased him that Greef still wasn’t after him personally, but it didn’t. It just made him angrier.

“Oh, so you’re supposed to _bring_ us in, is that it?” he couldn’t help but chuckle humorlessly. That was _his_ usual job, and it never went the way he expected.

Laughing at him had apparently been a bad idea – big surprise, young gang members were entitled little shits – and he squared his shoulders and took out a gun from inside his jacket faster than he had anticipated. Ok, the kid was an idiot, but he was quick, he had to hand him that.

“Look, I don’t think you understood me: I am taking the both of you you back to L.A. Whether that’s dead in the trunk or alive in the backseat is your choice.”

The gun aimed at his chest wasn’t wavering. And there was not much reserve in his eyes, if any. Mando took in a calming breath, trying not to picture the toddler eating his fries with pleased gusto on the other side of the door.

He slowly walked towards him, his gaze never leaving his, and only stopped when he could feel the cold muzzle of the gun against his sternum, dead center.

“You’re going to shoot me here, with all these people a few feet from us? When someone could come in any minute? How is that gonna look?” he asked him quietly.

“How far do you think you’ll be able to go, with a kidnapped child under your arm?” he continued, waiting for the right moment.

“Any of those truckers out there will be able to stop you, and then who’ll be bringing in the prize to Greef?”

That was it, at the mention of the boss’s name, the still impressionable gang member had a split moment of hesitation and lowered his gun just enough for Mando to safely sidestep him, encircle his right arm with his left, and swing his elbow hard against his wrist, successfully making him drop the piece. He used the same momentum to push him to the ground, employing the pounds and muscles he had over him to his advantage, and pressed his forearm against his throat, his other arm trying to control his wandering hands.

Mando knew he had a few minutes at best. Someone was bound to come in, find the door locked, and inquire about it to the staff. He also hadn’t been playing a trick on the kid when he had warned him not to make too much noise – the place was tiny, and the other patrons right on the other side of a thin wall. So he pressed against his throat with all his might, his knees digging for purchase against the other man’s flailing chest, hoping to get this over with quickly. His right arm was starting to shake with the effort and he felt cold sweat breaking against his neck. Seeing that the kid’s head was valiantly trying to come up for air, Mando stopped trying to prevent his hands from hitting him, and instead used his left hand to grab his hair and push him back against the tiled floor.

That was his mistake.

His opponent stopped trying to move his head and his breath was thankfully starting to come in shorter and shorter puffs, but with his freed hands he grabbed something in his pocket which Mando didn’t see and aimed it at his back.

Mando didn’t see what it was but he _felt_ it. The cold blade went in quickly, and only stopped when it hit bone. If he had wanted to scream, he wouldn’t have been able to. The sensation took his breath away and chilled him to the core. He’d been stabbed several times, and each time he was struck with the sheer violence of the assault on his body. He’d rather take a bullet any day. Instead of a burning sensation, he felt like his very soul had taken residence in his lower back and was howling in agony.

Tears blurring his eyes, Mando didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The tip of the blade scratching against his rib cage deep inside him, and his body hesitating between passing out or throwing up, he kept on pressing with all his shaking strength. He might have stopped breathing himself, he didn’t care. As long as the man below him stopped breathing _for good_ , he would be fine. He was using both his hands now, and the sounds coming from under him were becoming less and less human. Mando sighed in relief when the kid's hand released the handle of the knife, the savage pressure against his back abating slightly, then didn’t have to wait long until there were no movements at all.

He waited a few extra seconds, taking no pleasure in seeing the eyes rolled upwards, the discolored neck and the bluish lips. Trembling everywhere he stumbled up, his own breath coming back in shallow bursts, each inspiration coiling low in his back, as if his wound was directly connected to his throat. He finally had a look at the knife, and was surprised at how small it seemed, the black handle sticking out. Hoping that since the blade had stopped at his ribcage, it hadn’t caused too much damage, he took it out swiftly, for the first time emitting a yelp. His hand came out with a lot of blood, more than he had expected.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” he whispered, his legs barely responding as he dropped the knife in the bin and took out as many paper towels as he could from the dispenser, trying to be as quick as possible. He wiped the red stains from the floor and washed his hands in the sink, endeavoring not to worry at the blood he could still feel coursing low on his back, hot and sticky. He placed more paper towels against the wound, wincing and shaking still, then arranged the unmoving body over a toilet, the gun back in his jacket, and the stall door closed as far as it would go.

The deception wouldn't hold for long, but it would give him a little time to make his escape – hopefully.

He refrained from looking at himself in the mirror on his way out, and it took all his remaining strength to sit down in the booth across from the child, his back screaming at him the whole time.

The boy had barely made a dent in his fries, he’d been gone less than five minutes.

Mando gestured to the waitress, trying and failing not to notice that dark spots were appearing in his line of vision, and asked her in a voice he didn’t recognize if they could have the food to go, instead.

Five minutes after that, they were exiting the parking lot.

He knew, just like he knew that his injury was more serious than any he’d had in a while, that the place would soon be crawling with cops and feds. Too many people had seen him. Noticed him. Probably picked up on his odd behavior when he came out of the men’s room. He had to change direction, he couldn’t get back on the road he’d intended to take, and which would have led him to Paz’s sister in just a few more hours. His approach had to be reexamined, and he needed to lay low, to hide, to change car, to heal, to take care of the kid, to…

The child emitted a sorrowful wail.

Mando sighed and pressed the tissues against his wound – they were saturated with blood already and he could feel more against his fingers.

“It’s gonna be okay, _cariño_ , it’s gonna be okay.”

His words of reassurance didn’t work, either on him or the kid, and he drove aimlessly for a few miles, turning randomly and heading west, towards the ocean. He needed to put as much distance as he could between them and the café – it was still broad daylight, barely after 3PM, and he wouldn’t be able to drive until the sun set, using the cover of darkness to disappear. Given the larger and larger spots dancing across his eyes, he’d be lucky if he lasted five minutes, let alone five hours. He was drenched in sweat, his mouth was dry and his ears were buzzing.

Still, he pushed the car on. He needed the maps, he needed the first aid kit, he needed the satellite phone, he needed… _God_ , he needed to stop the car, but he couldn’t, he had to keep driving, and find a quiet spot further on.

Mando had no idea how long he managed to carry on. All he knew was that the roads were getting smaller and smaller, and the ocean was coming closer and closer, the water somehow pulling him in. He had stopped paying attention to the worried sobs coming from behind him, or the blood drenching the back of his shirt and jeans. One of his last conscious thoughts before he applied the brakes quickly, hoping the small covered spot he had just found under fir trees on the side of the road would hide them for a while, was to worry he would mess up Paz’s upholstery.

 _He’s gonna kill me_ , he told himself, passing out.

He was still out cold an hour later, unresponsive to the car horns coming from the vehicle he was blocking the path of, or the increasingly loud litany coming from the kid. He was repeating one word, and one word only. The one he’d been using to call him for the last few days. Mando didn’t see the woman coming out of the car in front of him either, or the young girl following her.


	8. Because we separate

He didn’t come to when he was moved to the passenger seat, or when the car started again. He didn’t hear the discussion between mother and daughter or the hesitation in the woman’s voice. But when the kid was released from his seat and his cries rose to an even more desperate crescendo, his eyes automatically opened, as if some primal reaction had forced him to wake up.

Disoriented, winded and in pain, he sat up quickly – too quickly – and intended to prevent whoever it was from harming the child.

“Stay still, it’s okay!” urged a voice next to him.

But the boy was calling his name, and for the first time he didn’t mind the word he was using – he welcomed it.

Mando managed to open the passenger door and would have reached his goal, defending the kid, if it wasn’t for two factors. First, the person who was now holding the child was also a child – a girl, who looked petrified. Second, his knees gave out under him and he would have face-planted if not for the arms around his shoulders stopping his fall.

“Don’t move, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” said the woman from the car. “We’re not going to harm your son, we promise, we just want to help,” she added, Mando’s eyes never leaving the boy’s movements.

He felt cold all over, his shirt drenched in blood and sweat, and for the life of him couldn’t get his breath back. Dimly aware that he needed to stop the bleeding on his back, and somewhat cognizant of the fact that the child looked safe for now in the young girl’s arms, he asked for the first aid kit that Paz had placed behind the driver seat. When the woman let go of his shoulders, he barely managed to hold himself upright on his shaking arms.

“It’s okay,” he said in the direction of the two children – he wasn’t sure which one he was trying to reassure, as both seemed either terrified of him or for him.

When the kit was opened in front of him, he was pleased to see that he had everything he needed. He started listing all the steps he needed to go through in order to focus on something other than the pain: irrigate the wound with sterile solution, numb the site with a shot of local anesthetic, close the incision with a stapler, cover it with gauze, and finally swallow pain meds and antibiotics to hopefully prevent an infection. He could do this. He had to.

“Leave us, we’ll be fine,” he told the woman in a tone he hoped convincing.

“You’re not going to do this here, come inside,” she replied.

For the first time, Mando looked at his surroundings and noticed they were no longer on the side of the small track where he thought he’d parked the car. They were in front of an old house, surrounded by trees. Who knew who else was there? Who knew who else was watching them?

“It’s fine,” said the woman, somehow sensing his distress, “it’s just us, there’s no one around, you’re safe.”

But _he_ wasn’t.

“Go back inside your house, leave us,” he pressed, trying to order his thoughts over the incessant buzzing in his ears. They couldn’t stay here in the open, he was putting everybody at risk.

“You can’t treat that wound on your own, you need help,” she argued.

Mando looked at her, _really_ looked at her for the first time. He could see in her dark eyes and hard stare that she wouldn’t easily be dissuaded.

“It’s not safe for you to stay with us, your daughter…” he started, before she interrupted him.

“ _Your_ son needs you in one piece, now let us take you inside.”

She’d beaten him at his own game, using the child as his weak spot.

“You don’t know who we are,” he tried as his last trump card, his heart beating so fast it felt like it wanted to escape his chest.

“You’re the man they mentioned on the radio – the soldier from Los Angeles. You killed someone in Castle Rock. Was he trying to take your son?”

 _Your son_. It was the third time she used that word.

“He’s not mine,” he corrected her, not witnessing the surprise in her eyes as he lowered his to the ground, “but yes, he was trying to get the kid,” Mando conceded.

He couldn’t feel his legs under him anymore, and the toddler had quieted down a bit in the girl’s arms. He’d probably exhausted himself crying – the little one needed proper sleep. His trembling arms hardly supporting his weight and recognizing the tell-tale signs of impending loss of consciousness, Mando came to an uncomfortable decision: he needed help indeed.

So he nodded, hoping the woman would understand that she’d won, and with her assistance, they slowly made their way to the house. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and managed to support a great deal of his weight. The few steps leading to the porch almost proved impossible to his screaming back, and he passed out again, but only for a few seconds. The woman helped him stand up again, unfazed, and together they managed to get inside.

The next few hours were a blur, but he didn’t regret his decision to ask for help – there was no way he would have managed to close the wound on his own. Her hands proved steady, and she only seemed to hesitate when it came to using the staple.

“Why not stitches instead?” she asked.

“The kit doesn’t have the equipment, it’s meant for stabilizing wounds quickly on the battlefield. The staples are faster to apply.”

She still wasn’t convinced, but didn’t require more guidance and proceeded carefully. The local anesthetic had barely made a dent on his pain, but Mando was past the point of feeling anything but. The two capsules of morphine he allowed himself afterwards with the antibiotics must have had an effect though, because he woke up in a different place.

It took him a while to come to, and at first he had no memory of what had happened or where he was. He was lying on his right side on something soft. The pain was still there and he had no trouble remembering the stabbing now, but it was somehow diffused, as though it was emanating from something other than his body. Like he was no longer directly connected to the wound. There, but not there. In other words, the morphine was still working, which meant he hadn’t been sleeping long.

His ears were ringing and his vision poor over the spots dancing across his eyes – he could recognize the signs of serious blood loss, but hopefully he’d recuperate in a timely manner. He didn’t see how he could get himself a transfusion anyway.

A sound stopped him in his attempt to slowly stand up and prepare to leave the place. The child. He was giggling in another room nearby. He hadn’t heard it often, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was _his_ kid laughing.

 _His kid_.

It had taken being literally stabbed in the back by his own gang to come to accept it.

Mando let himself close his eyes for a little while longer. They were safe. He could rest.

The second time he came to, soft light was streaming from a window close to where he was lying. It was morning. He’d been asleep for hours, with scant memories of the night. Being too hot then too cold. Nightmares. Trying to convince himself that the worst hadn’t happened while he’d been out of commission, he took stock of his condition. His right side was numb from not having moved in a while, and his lower back would still cause shooting pain to the rest of his body anytime he tried to move in a certain way, but he was better.

“Your fever’s gone,” said a voice above him.

Mando tried very hard not to react, for fear the true agony he’d suffered would come back, but he didn’t quite manage it and swallowed hard.

“Do you need more morphine?” asked the woman, reading his movements, “I got you to take one during the night but it’s been hours, now.”

He had zero memory of such an event, and that worried him. Carefully, he pushed himself up with quavering arms and closed his eyes forcefully when his head started spinning. When he was sure he wouldn’t suddenly throw up, he opened them again. He’d been moved to some kind of camping sleeping pad in what he assumed was the living room. He propped his good side against the back of the sofa directly to his right, and tried to remember what he had wanted to say.

“You passed out after you took morphine the first time. So we couldn’t move you to a bed upstairs. I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable.”

“It was fine, thank you,” he managed to reply. “No more morphine,” he added, finally remembering the question she had asked.

She looked doubtful at that but didn’t press him. She had knelt on the floor, a safe distance away so as not to appear as hovering or crowding him. When he saw her eyes dip slightly, he finally noticed that his chest wasn’t covered by anything and managed to quickly grab the sheet that lay discarded near his feet, reassured at least to see that he was still wearing his jeans. The fast movement had cost him, but he felt better with the barrier between them. Mando thought he spied an amused smile on her lips, yet he couldn’t be sure.

“You were burning with fever at one point last night, and your shirt was drenched already. You kept on mumbling things but you didn’t fight me. You seem a lot better, now.”

“What was I saying?” he asked, self-conscious once more.

“I couldn’t quite make everything out, you were half delirious. It was a mix of Spanish and English, I think. Something about a cupboard, maybe. And you were asking about your child.”

 _The child_. Mando cursed himself for not having asked after him the minute he woke up.

“Where is he?” he inquired, the words rushing out now, “Is he okay? Did he eat? Did you change him? Did…”

“He’s fine,” the woman interrupted, calmly “he’s still sleeping upstairs with my daughter, Winta. He’s safe.”

“We’ll be gone as soon as he wakes up, I promise.”

She looked doubtful again at that but didn’t say anything.

“Thank you,” Mando added after a few seconds of silence, “for everything. I’m really grateful for your help, it’s…well, it was very nice of you.”

He was so very bad at this and his fuzzy head wasn’t helping.

“It’s Omera, by the way,” she told him.

It hadn’t crossed his mind to ask for her name, and he wondered what that said about him.

“And you’re Mando?” she asked, and he nodded, then frowned.

“How do you…”

“They said your name on the radio.”

Right, the radio. He was still being hunted. He’d killed a man the previous day. This propelled him to his feet, but it proved harder than sitting up, and he had to grip the sofa tightly. The simple act of putting any kind of weight on his left foot was ridiculously painful. How he was supposed to walk, let alone drive, he didn’t know. But he had no choice. So he let go of the couch and proceeded slowly. It took five long minutes to reach the kitchen, which was only a few steps away on the old creaky floorboards, and Omera followed him in silence. She didn’t try to help him, but she didn’t try to stop him either – she was letting him come to the obvious conclusion on his own – he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He sat at the kitchen table with a relieved breath, and spied the first aid kit on the table. He rummaged for the painkillers he knew were there, and Omera handed him a glass of water. Not morphine, he had to be careful with it and wanted to keep a clear head, but stuff he hoped strong enough to help with his state.

“You should drink more water, you need fluids,” she stated, refilling his glass.

“Do you work in the medical field?” Mando asked, remembering her efficiency the previous day when dealing with his wound.

“No,” she replied. “Not for a long time, at least.”

He wondered what that meant, but didn’t press her – it wasn’t his business.

“Are you hungry?” she inquired, intent on changing the subject, it seemed. “Your son had some food last night, and we gave him a bottle. We got the stuff from your car. Clothes and diapers as well, I hope it was okay.”

“Of course,” Mando replied, puzzled that she would be unsure about such a thing and choosing not to correct her again on her assumption – he’d done it once already.

“I parked it in the garage. No one comes around here, but just in case.”

“Thank you,” he repeated.

“The guns I left in the car.”

There was no judgment in her voice so Mando simply nodded. He looked at her again and tried not to notice how beautiful she was. He felt utterly inadequate, with the stupid sheet over his shoulders and the dried sweat and blood stickily clinging to his hair and skin. His only worth lay in his actions. Being incapacitated meant he had nothing to offer.

“I’m not hungry, you’ve done far enough for me already. I’m sorry if I kept you up last night.”

“Not at all,” Omera replied, somehow finding his words amusing. He must have looked as bad as he felt, because she next suggested he might benefit from a shower. That he agreed on, and they shuffled to the small bathroom, thankfully located downstairs. She left him to his own devices after bringing him his bag, and he was relieved, fearing she had been about to suggest helping him.

The pain meds had kicked in, but it didn’t stop him from emitting a startled gasp when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t think he’d ever looked so pale or tired, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t blame the lightning on that. Mando tried to focus on the positive, his wound, which didn’t look infected when he peeked under the bandage, and was no longer bleeding. Still, he reminded himself to take another round of antibiotics today.

It proved tricky to wash but the warm spray felt good on his skin. It also allowed himself to think for a bit. Hopefully, he’d be well-enough to travel later today, as he couldn’t take advantage of the woman’s kindness for long – Omera, he corrected himself – then he’d have to figure out if it was still safe to drive to Paz’s sister, or if he needed to find somewhere else to hide for a while. The police and feds were probably on red alert, and more gang members would come.

This last consideration was the hardest to swallow – a tiny part of him had still been hoping that somehow, the situation would be resolved. That he could reason with Greef, make him see that he was wrong. But he had to accept that it would never happen, now. His own gang, his _family_ had abandoned him. For good. There was no going back from this. Just like there was no going back from the vow he had made to himself regarding the boy, _his_ boy. He wouldn’t stop until he knew he was safe.

He didn’t see much improvement in the mirror after his shower – his hair was still shaggy and his face scruffy, but he felt slightly better.

When he rejoined Omera in the kitchen, she was on the phone. His satellite phone. Fearing the worst, part of his mind started planning his escape with the kid.

“He’s here,” she said to whoever it was, “he can talk to you.”

She walked towards his paralyzed form, and handed him the receiver.

“It rang while you were in the shower. A Colonel Vizla. Apparently he tried calling several times last night, but I never heard it, I’m sorry.”

Too stunned to reply, Mando simply took the phone from her.

“Paz?” he checked.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , kid,” he replied.

Mando sighed in relief, a weight lifting from his shoulders. No matter what, he could still count on Paz to be there for him.

“Are you okay?” he pressed.

“Yes, yes I’m fine,” Mando assured him.

“That’s not what _she_ was just saying.”

“I’ll _be_ fine,” he corrected, “it’s not that bad.”

Paz grumbled. Omera went back to her cooking. Mando should have moved somewhere else but he stayed where he was.

“We should have known it wouldn’t be this easy, hey?”

“Did you warn your sister?” Mando asked.

“Yeah, as soon as I heard about the ‘incident’ in Castle Rock, I knew you wouldn’t be making it over there the same day. It seemed like it was a close call, kid.”

“I should have seen it coming,” he berated himself. “I should have been on my guard.”

“What’s done is done. You did what you had to do to protect the boy. He’s good, right?”

“Yeah, he’s still sleeping. The woman… I mean, Omera’s daughter, she’s been looking after him.”

“You have to stay where you are for the time being. You can’t leave this place, you hear?”

At this, Mando made for the living room again.

“Paz, we have to go, it’s too dangerous for them. I can’t let them take such risks.”

“She told me her house was in the middle of nowhere, no one is going to come. It’s the best place to lay low for a few days.”

“Paz…”

“And I found someone we can trust. But she needs to gather some intel, first. She’s gonna call you, and you’re gonna listen to her.”

“Who is she?” Mando asked.

“You don’t need to know that just yet. Just hear her out when she calls, okay? You can trust her.”

Mando didn’t like this, but he trusted Paz. So he would have no choice but to trust whoever he had found to help him out.

“Paz, I can’t stay here,” he tried again. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

“Where? Haven’t you been listening to the news? The whole area is surrounded. There are police roadblocks on every road from the state border to Olympia.”

 _Shit_. That was bad.

“She’s not gonna let me stay, Paz,” Mando murmured, hoping Omera wasn’t listening, “and she’d be right not to.”

“ _She_ just told me different,” assured Paz. “She wants you to be safe. You and the boy. She understands what’s at stake. And I think she likes you…”

“Paz,” Mando cut in, “be serious.”

“I am! People are just _kind_ sometimes, kid. They just want to help, no strings attached. You know that, right?”

But Mando didn’t. This was a foreign concept to him.

“Look after yourself, you need to heal. And call me back tomorrow, yeah?”

They hung up soon after that.

Before he had time to process Paz’s words, a sound he had strangely come to both dread and welcome could be heard from the stairs: the child was crying. The girl – Winta, he corrected himself again – was carrying him, and Mando could tell she was doing her best to calm the wailing toddler, despite her young age. He approached them slowly, and Omera joined them at the bottom of the staircase, alerted by the noise.

“Dada!” said the boy as soon as he saw him, and his heart filled with longing.

Mando raised his arms, and Winta hesitated a second before handing the child to him – he probably hadn’t made such a great impression on her the previous day, and he hoped he’d be able to rectify that.

“I’m sorry, he just woke up like that, crying and crying. I couldn’t do anything!”

“It’s okay,” Mando replied, emitting a sigh when the child burrowed against his chest, then a wince when he had to move him from his usual left side to the right one instead. “It’s not your fault, he gets like that sometimes and it takes a while to calm him down.”

But it didn’t take long at all this time. As soon as the boy had placed his small arms around his neck and hugged him, soft words of reassurance in his ear, the sobs stopped at once. Mando didn’t see Omera’s knowing look, as he was busy hugging the child back. He wanted to say so many things to him, how sorry he was for scaring him the previous day, how he had missed him and how he would do everything in his power not to let anything like that happen again. But there was no need, it seemed. A hug worked just as well.

They ate breakfast, the boy refusing to sit anywhere but on his lap, while Omera and Winta exchanged looks he couldn’t decipher. Mando didn’t know where to start regarding how long they’d be allowed to stay, so he turned to the girl first, as he assumed talking to her would be easier.

“Thank you for looking after him yesterday,” he began.

“What’s his name?” she asked in return.

“Huh, he doesn’t have one.” Winta looked puzzled. “I mean, I’m sure he does, I just don’t know it.” More bewilderment.

“Then what do you call him? Just now, you said ‘Carino’, before he stopped crying. That’s Spanish, right? What does it mean? I thought that was his name.”

He’d been wrong – talking to the girl was worse than talking to her mom.

“ _Cariño_. It’s… It means… It’s like ‘darling one’, I guess. Just a word you use with kids.”

Why was it so hard to explain? He hadn’t realized how natural the word had started to feel, when he would have never dreamed of using a similar term of endearment in English.

“Can I play with him again today? I have summer school tomorrow, so I won’t be able to see him as much.”

“Sure,” Mando replied, amazed at her leaps in changing topics every time he answered one of her questions – she was worse than Paz. He also didn’t try to read anything in her assumption that they’d still be there the following day.

“I think he’d like drawing with me. Has he ever drawn with you? Can you draw? Can he?”

“Winta – let the man eat,” Omera admonished quietly.

“Sorry,” said the girl, “I’ll go dress now so we can play later. See you little one!” she announced with a smile for the kid, standing up.

She received an answering coo, which pleased her, then Mando went back to feeding him some cereals, his own breakfast discarded for now.

“I’m sorry,” Omera told him, “she’s not used to being around a lot of adults apart from me and her teachers. But she loves children of all ages.”

“It’s fine,” replied Mando, wishing he had been that comfortable around people at her age, “and it’s good of her to want to spend time with my… with the kid.”

“You said yesterday that he wasn’t your son. But hearing you and seeing the two of you now, I can’t quite believe it,” she voiced. It seemed that she had wanted to mention this for a while. And Mando couldn’t blame her – he was still confused on the subject himself, even though he had started coming to terms with some aspects of it.

“It’s hard to explain…” he started. But it wasn’t, he realized. Since he had already told the story of how he had come across the kid to Paz, it meant the words came more easily the second time. He eschewed some finer details, such as his current job description, for lack of a better term, but he didn’t lie to her. She didn’t deserve to be lied to, especially if she meant to let them spend some time in her home. He didn’t try to sugarcoat the situation – bad people were after him and the boy, and he couldn’t promise it would be safe for her and her daughter to have them stay.

“It’s obvious the child trusts you,” said Omera after he was done explaining the circumstances to her. “And kids, especially so young, rarely make mistakes in judgment of character. They can feel it.”

Mando looked down at the curly head, resting on his chest. He wondered if that’s what it was. If the kid had somehow _felt_ his good intentions, despite how little he actually thought of himself.

“Please stay with us, you’ll both be safe here,” she maintained.

“But I don’t know how long that’s going to be,” Mando stressed. “The Colonel you had on the phone, my friend Paz, he found someone to help us, but I’m not sure when she’ll call.”

“You’re going to need time to heal, you lost a lot of blood yesterday.”

“I feel better,” and it was true, the pain relievers had helped, although he still felt extremely tired.

“Stay today at least, and see if you are rested enough tomorrow or if your friend’s contact calls.”

That seemed reasonable to Mando, and he gratefully accepted, even if part of him wondered how he could make it up to her, somehow. She probably wouldn’t accept money, even if he had some thanks to Paz, but all throughout the day it kept interrupting his thoughts – he wasn’t used to accept kindness without some kind of compensation.

His exhaustion meant he spent most of the day on the sofa in the living room, careful not to put too much pressure on his back, with the kid and Winta playing close by. The toddler was back to his clingy self, which had stopped a bit in Bolinas, but he couldn’t blame him – he must have been terrified the previous day. As long as he was in his line of sight and could secure regular hugs or words of reassurance from him though, he seemed fine spending time with Winta, who never tired of finding occupations for him: drawing, playing , reading… He was amazed.

He managed to find a small way to help out late afternoon, when mother and daughter had converged to the coffee table with Winta’s homework. The boy had refused to be put down for a nap, probably enjoying himself a bit too much, but he was resting against his chest on the couch, his eyes still open but his respiration slow.

The duo was getting frustrated over calculus, Omera finding the correct result but unable to explain how she had gotten there to Winta.

“Can I try?” asked Mando, slowly sliding next to them with the kid munching on his T-shirt collar now.

“I’m ten, I’m not stupid,” said the girl, frowning.

“No one said that,” placated her mom.

“I’m not going to summer school because I need remedial studies, I just like going, and it’s not like I have anywhere else to go during the holidays anyway,” she grumbled.

“Winta, we talked about this…”

Mando didn’t follow the rest of their conversation and picked up a pencil.

“How about now?” he asked after a minute, having resolved the simple equation with easier to understand fractions. Omera had indeed the good result, but it was probably too difficult for the girl to understand her reasoning.

Mother and daughter looked at what he had written, and Winta emitted a pleased “Yes, now I get it!”. Mando smiled, and hoped Omera wasn’t resentful that he had managed where she had failed. But she wasn’t – quite the contrary.

“Can you explain these ones as well?” asked the girl, and Mando did his best helping with all the problems and equations she showed him.

The kid was still slobbering on his T-shirt and Omera left the room to bring him his pacifier. He muttered his thanks, absorbed by Winta’s homework, and when they were done half an hour later, the boy had fallen asleep in his arms without his noticing.

“You’re good at this,” marveled Winta, glad to be done with her studies but sad that the kid was asleep and she couldn’t play with him anymore.

“I like numbers,” confirmed Mando, “I was good at math at school.”

“Did you go to college?”

“Not after high school, no. But I got a degree in Engineering when I was in my twenties. I’m studying for another one now,” he confided.

“Engineering, that sounds nice! I want to study Computer Science.”

“That’s a good plan,” he agreed, “you can do a lot of stuff with that.”

“Mom went to college too, but she had to drop out before I was born. She was studying to be a doctor.”

 _So that explained it,_ thought Mando.

“And then she started nursing school when I was three but had to stop that too when dad died.”

Mando wasn’t sure what to answer to that, even though Omera wasn’t in the room with them, so he settled on a neutral “It’s a shame.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember much from that time, I was just four. But she works at a drug store now, so that’s not exactly the same, but I guess she managed to keep doing what she liked in a way.”

“Sure,” he agreed, even though he was quite certain Omera didn’t feel that way.

He had of course imagined that there was a dad somewhere, but not that Omera was a widow, and he felt bad for not having inquired a bit more on the situation even if there again, it really wasn’t his business.

“You don’t remember your dad?” he queried, feeling less guilty about asking the girl about this.

“Just little things,” she replied, shrugging. She didn’t appear to find the subject of conversation sad – she simply didn’t have much to say about it.

Winta went back to her drawings after that, and Mando remained pensive. The girl had been four and she didn’t remember much about her father. What hope did he have that the kid would remember anything from the time they were spending together? He’d had him for a week, and he didn’t expect it would take that long for whoever Paz had deemed trustworthy to intervene on his behalf. The kid would be reunited with his family, if he had any left, and if not they would find someone safe for him. Mando hugged the child close to his chest, hoping he’d never forget the feeling of having his warm, dozing form against him.

He had trouble finding sleep that night. He turned down Omera’s offer to use the guestroom upstairs, and remained on the sleeping pad. It felt safer to stay close to the front door, despite the woman’s continued assurance that no one would find them there. The kid’s borrowed cot was close by, as he had refused to sleep in Winta’s room again, no matter how much the girl pouted. Mando felt secretly glad of that fact – no one had ever shown such interest or trust in him before, and he enjoyed the feeling, especially if it wasn’t one he would be able to experience for much longer.

The room was too hot, and his back was once more troubling him, quick flashes of pain keeping him awake anytime he thought he had found the right position to sleep in. He had refrained from taking any more painkillers, and he was starting to regret his decision. But being awake meant he heard the child’s sobs before they got too loud for once. It had started very quietly, so quietly that Mando had thought he might fall back to sleep on his own. After a couple of minutes, he realized that wouldn’t happen, and he was too helpless to resist picking him up.

“ _Todo esta bien, estoy aquí, chico_ ,” he whispered to the boy, holding him securely against his chest and slowly walking around the dark room. He wasn’t very loud, but the tears wouldn’t stop as easily as they had that morning.

Not feeling too great on his feet still, Mando eventually sat on the couch, and kept on murmuring meaningless reassurances. He had realized that the words didn’t exactly matter, the kid just liked the sound of his voice and his calm tone. The toddler eventually emitted a drawn out sigh and calmed down, but he wouldn’t go back to sleep. His small hands were playing against his chest, testing the texture of his skin and tracing the scars he found. It was tickling and Mando chuckled, the kid copying him with a happy giggle.

“It’s nice to know that at least _you_ don’t mind that I’m ugly,” he said with a grin, tickling the baby’s sides gently, just to hear him giggle some more.

“You’re not ugly,” said a voice in the dark.

Mando was getting better at not flinching every time Omera surprised him, but he felt foolish for not having heard her. To think he’d meant to remain vigilant during the night, and here he was tickling the kid.

The sofa dipped beside him as she sat down. It was hard to see her face, but Mando preferred it that way.

“You shouldn’t be so self-conscious about your scars,” she added.

Mando wondered how much she had seen, but then remembered she had been taking care of him the previous night when he’d been sick with fever.

“Ugliness isn’t just something visible on the outside,” he replied, more serious.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Omera started after a few seconds of silence, Mando tensing at her words. “When your friend called this morning – Paz. We’d been on the phone for a while when you came in. It rang just after you went to the bathroom.”

He stayed silent, wondering where she was going with this.

“He told me about you. What you’d been through. Your childhood, the gang… He didn’t have to. But I could tell he wanted me to know. To understand why I shouldn’t let you leave.”

“It wasn’t his place to tell you that,” grumbled Mando, angry at Paz and feeling silly now for having thought he would be sparing her feelings by not telling her everything regarding the boy. She must have thought he was being dishonest.

“You’re right,” agreed Omera, “it wasn’t. But he clearly cares about you. He said he’d come to get you if you couldn’t stay here.”

Mando stopped resenting Paz – he’d never mentioned this on the phone.

“I had a breakdown after Winta’s father died. A bad one. I felt alone and angry that he had left me with our daughter, this old house he’d half-finished renovating, and all these loans I knew nothing about to pay off. I had a really hard time pulling through, and fought tooth and nails to keep Winta from being taken away by Child Protective Services. And when I saw you with your kid yesterday… It all came back. That anger. The way you wouldn’t let anyone take him from you. I don’t care that he’s not technically your son or that you’ve only had him for a week – that’s what I saw. There was no way I was going to turn you away.”

He didn’t know how to respond, not used to being on the receiving end of such personal confessions. It seemed that the dark was loosening both their tongues. The child against his chest had no idea the conversation had turned so grave and was happily babbling now, his tears long forgotten.

“Do kids so young have nightmares, do you know?” he asked, thinking he was changing the subject when he actually wasn’t. “Because… I mean, I don’t know much about children, but this boy… He just seems so calm and contended most of the time, but at night he wakes up terrified. I don’t know what he’s been through, but it probably wasn’t very pleasant, at least just before I found him. And yet looking at him now…”

“He’s happy,” she replied simply.

“Yeah. I think so, at least.”

“I think so, too.”

Mando sighed, enjoying the silence punctuated by soft noises from the toddler. He was slowly settling and he’d soon be able to put him back in the crib.

“Winta was older when she started having nightmares, but I guess it’s possible. It’s probably his way of processing the trauma.”

Feeling terrible again for what he had made him go through the previous day, Mando stroked his back in slow circles.

“You’re doing your best, trust me.”

Mando didn’t think his best amounted to much, but her words still made him feel better. She wished him goodnight after the boy had been returned to his bed, and sleep came easily for him after that.


	9. Like ripples on a blank shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for keeping on reading and leaving kudos and comments!

There was no mention the next morning of either their conversation in the living room during the night, or his upcoming departure. Everybody behaved as though the four of them having breakfast was a normal occurrence, Winta talking about the old children books she had found in her room and wanted to read to the kid after school, and Omera reminding her she would be working until six. Mando stayed out of their way, marveling at their efficiency when he could barely focus on anything but his coffee cup and feeding the boy small pieces of toast. Despite his more restful night, he was clearly not 100% better yet, and hoped Paz’s contact wouldn’t call too soon.

After Winta left for her bus, Mando expected Omera to tell him what she expected from him, but she surprised him once more.

“Winta will be back by two this afternoon, she’s used to spend a few hours on her own. She’ll have lunch at school and there should be enough leftovers for you and your boy in the fridge.”

“Right.”

“If you get the call you’re waiting for… Well, I understand if you need to leave quickly, but if not feel free to wait until tomorrow.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind.”

She nodded and left him in the kitchen to get ready for work, and Mando tried not to focus on the fact that she had no qualms about leaving him alone with her daughter in her absence. Well, him and the kid, but still. He hadn’t been that kind of person for a while, if ever. The kind people trusted.

Thinking it was high time he checked that the car would be good to go when he eventually had to leave – his memories of how he had reached the track leading to Omera’s house from the café in Castle Rock were fuzzy at best, and he wondered if he had damaged the vehicle somehow. When he had found out the previous day when looking at a map that he had managed to drive more than 60 miles in his state, he’d been stunned.

Mando tried not to focus on the blood stains on the front seats – he’d try to clean them later when the child, who was currently wriggling in his arms, was napping – then noticed that the so-called bag of “gadgets” from Paz was still there. He heard the front door close just as he was about to grab it. Omera leaving for work. But instead of hearing her car, which she had been forced to park outside, he heard a man’s voice.

Fearing the worst, he quickly walked to the garage door to hear what was going on and intervene if necessary, his mind already telling him that he could grab the guns from the car, and lock the child there. But it sounded like someone Omera knew already, although that didn’t necessarily mean it was a good thing, as he soon learned.

“…there’s nothing else for me to add,” he heard Omera say, catching only the end of her sentence.

“Don’t be like that, there’s no reason we can’t stay friends…” replied a smooth voice.

“We were never friends. I paid the money I owed you months ago, that’s it.”

“The money I loaned you when no one else would.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful, but I don’t see why you keep coming here, our business arrangement is over.”

“Our ‘business arrangement’? No wonder you live alone, if that’s how you treat all the people who are trying to help you.”

The voice was definitely less silky now, and Mando risked a look through the small window above the garage door standing on his tiptoes. He quickly catalogued the man’s features for later – small, short dark hair, glasses – then continued listening in, although the conversation seemed to be at an end.

“I’m going to be late for work and I would rather you didn’t come here again.”

He heard her leave the porch, and their voices grew faint, but thankfully a car started soon after that. Mando had another look: Omera was driving away, and the man was walking in the other direction, but not before looking at the departing vehicle with what Mando could only judge from his distance as delight. He’d definitely be back later.

He was torn. Clearly, Omera wasn’t the kind of woman who would lie down and roll over in a conflict, and he had learned as much the previous night, but the man was aggravating. And he didn’t like the fact that someone could be snooping around the house – he’d come on foot, he wasn’t living far. This was not his business and he wouldn’t want Omera to think he was overstepping, but if he came back and saw him or the child, he could be in serious trouble.

Mando sighed and picked up the bag he had discarded to check later. He voiced his doubts out loud to the child as he was changing him upstairs. Obviously, the kid was no help, but it felt good to share his thoughts, something he’d been doing more and more lately. He was still undecided as he was doing the dishes in the kitchen, the boy playing with some of Winta’s toys at his feet, and remained distracted throughout their lunch later on. He blamed his slow reaction at realizing that the toddler was giggling and throwing food at him on his general state of exhaustion, but resolved that he needed to wait for Winta’s return anyway before making a decision.

He managed to put the boy down for a nap after having read him a couple of books – he should have thought of that sooner, really – then remembered Paz’s bag. He hadn’t wanted to open it with the kids around, for fear the gadgets proved dangerous, but he shouldn’t have worried. One particular item caught his eye, and it gave him an idea.

He had another idea when Winta returned home, noticed that the kid was still sleeping with a disappointed sigh, and went straight to the coffee table to draw.

“You’re really good at that,” praised Mando. And it was true – he thought her strange looking animals were extremely creative. She seemed to be enjoying inventing new species, and told him all about her winged zebras and furry, six-legged dogs.

“Can I ask you a question?” he started, sitting on the couch behind her. “Do you know a man who lives close by? Your mother had a visitor before going to work this morning, and he didn’t seem very pleasant.”

“Oh, that’s probably Mr. Pershing. He doesn’t live very far, but sometimes he uses our access road. Mom hates that, because he has his own.”

“He has dark hair and wears glasses? A bit younger than me?”

“I don’t know about his age, but yeah, that sounds like him. Why? What’s he done? Was he asking for money again?”

 _Again?_ How much did Winta know?

“I’m not sure,” replied Mando, not wanting to assume anything, “but your mom seemed annoyed with him.”

“Yeah, I think he’s creepy. He always looks at us strange when we see him in town. Mom said she shouldn’t have borrowed money from him, but she paid him back, I know she did. And he was the one who’d suggested it in the first place. I heard at school that he loans money to a lot of other parents.”

“Do you know if he works with other people? Like colleagues?”

“No, it’s always just him, I think.”

Hopefully, just a loan shark wannabe acting on his own, then. But he’d still have to be careful.

“Your mom told you how you shouldn’t mention to anyone that the boy and I are staying here, right?”

“Of course, and I didn’t say anything, I promise!” Winta said, her eyes wide.

“I believe you,” Mando reassured her, “but I don’t like the fact that he comes around.”

“And he’s been doing that more and more lately.”

“I might have an idea to prevent that happening again, but I’d need your help.”

“ _My_ help?” she was part surprised, part pleased. “Is it gonna be dangerous?”

“Not for you or your mom,” he assured her quickly.

“That’s okay, it can be a little dangerous, I can take it.”

Mando smiled and nodded conspiratorially – he wouldn’t let it happen, but there was no harm in pretending.

“What do you need?” she queried, serious.

He asked her for black markers and paper, then drew what he wanted her to copy. Nothing too complicated, but it had to be recognizable. He knew those tattoos well, and could reproduce them from memory. Winta was undaunted when he had her draw them on his upper arms, and she took her job seriously, etching them better than he’d had on the paper, as he had expected.

“It might be hard to wash them away,” she warned.

“That’s fine, they need to look realistic.”

It was strange for Mando to see appear on his skin the very symbols he had always refused to wear. But at least, it would be possible to remove them. To get rid of them after one last run as an ‘official’ _NF_ gang member, doing something he was unfortunately very good at.

“What are those?” Winta queried of his two actual tattoos, at the corner of each of his hands. “A star and a dragon?”

“The star on my left hand is for my parents, for the country they were from. The other is for the army. I was in the XVIII Airborne Corps. The insignia is a dragon.”

“That looks really cool! Airborne, is that like parachuting and stuff?”

“Yeah, and then after a while I realized I preferred staying in the planes than jumping out of them. So I joined the Air Force instead and became a pilot.”

He had her completely mesmerized – an unusual feeling, but the words came easily. Speaking to a kid was different. There was judgment, yes, but one he understood. He didn’t have to pretend anything with her. He just answered her questions. There were many, but he didn’t mind, and it kept her occupied while she drew on his arms.

He was impressed with the result. He repeated the movement a few times afterwards, rolling up his sleeves then down again, and the drawings stayed put. With any luck, the man would be too focused on them to make the connection with the face he might have seen on TV. And he looked nothing like the photo they used anymore.

“You’re gonna scare him, is that it?” guessed Winta, correctly. “You do look scary, even without the tattoos.”

“Do I?” Mando frowned.

“But in a good way, you know”.

He had no idea there was a ‘good way’, but he assumed it was alright, then.

The kid woke up, and Winta was soon distracted again. Mando knew he had to put his plan into action before Omera came back from work, and asked the girl to describe where this Mr. Pershing lived again. He made sure she would be fine for a little while on her own with the boy – if Omera could trust him with her daughter, then he could trust her with his child – then left the house, after making a short detour to pick up a gun from his car. No point doing things halfway, after all.

He was surprised by the chill outside – this was still July, but he wasn’t in California anymore. The wind had picked up during the night, and he could see clouds gathering over the ocean to the west. It felt good to stretch his legs, although he was winded quickly, his body still not completely over the fact that it had lost so much blood. He’d have to ask Omera about it – maybe she knew how long it would actually take him to recuperate. He didn’t like not being in top shape when so much could still rely on brute strength and stamina.

Mando quickly realized that he probably wouldn’t need either of those things for his scheme to be successful. The second rate Shylock looked a lot less threatening standing in front of him than he had this morning through the garage window.

He had opened his door without hesitation, and Mando tried to make himself as unthreatening as possible. But Winta was right – that wasn’t something he was good at, and the smaller man immediately knew something was up. Better get to it quickly, then.

“Are you Mr. Pershing?”

The man nodded, his glasses slipping slightly on his nose.

“A friend of mine asked me to see you. She thinks you got the wrong end of the stick over something. So I thought I’d come here and make sure that wasn’t the case.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Omera. You know her, right? Her and her daughter?”

More nodding and a frown, now. Mando had to make things clearer for him.

“See, the thing is… We’ve been looking out for her ever since her husband died. He was one of us, after all. So we got worried when she called us, all scared…” Cue the sleeves, and Mando was pleased to see the man’s eyes widening at the sight of the tattoos. With his line of business, there was little chance he hadn’t come across them in the past after all.

“Well, you catch my drift, right? I understand you had a business arrangement, and that’s fine. But we’d all appreciate it if you stopped bothering them, now. Does that seem fair?”

“Yes, very fair, sir,” Pershing replied in a clipped voice, his eyes still lingering on his arms.

“Well, thank you for your time then, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

He turned his back on him, trusting his instincts that it was the right thing to do so that he could also see the gun at his belt, but Pershing had one last thing to say.

“Sir?” Mando turned back. “Omera, is she… I mean, is she your…”

He didn’t let him finish that sentence and smiled. This time, he didn’t try to look unthreatening.

Mando slowly walked back the way he had come, and found both kids where he had left them in the living room. Now that he was done, he wanted to get rid of the drawings on his arms as soon as possible. He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d done, far from it, but it made him feel dirty. He didn’t want to see the marks on his skin while he was anywhere near the children.

He inquired if there was a bathtub upstairs and anything to make bubbles with, and when Winta nodded, he suggested they gave the kid a bath. She heartily agreed and the boy was over the moon at the words “bubbles” and “bath”, which he had recognized.

“Did it work?” she asked as they sat next to the tub, the kid gleefully playing with the toys she handed him while Mando washed his arms.

“I think so,” he replied. “It’s… I mean, I shouldn’t be asking you this, but perhaps your mom…”

“It’s fine,” she cut in, knowing where he was going already. “I can keep the secret. Mom would say you were ‘meddling’ anyway. I heard her say that, once. She hates people ‘meddling’. But I think you’re okay.”

Scary in a good way and okay. He could live with that.

The call came in right after dinner. Winta had been true to her word and hadn’t said anything to her mom regarding what they had been doing during the afternoon. She hadn’t seemed even the slightest bit cagey – Mando was amazed at the ten-year old’s nerve. And realized Omera would have her hands full in a few years.

“Mando?” said a woman’s voice.

“Speaking.”

“This is Special Agent Cara Dune, Colonel Paz Vizla gave me this number.”

“FBI?” he confirmed.

“I’m with CCRSB, yes.”

Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch. The department investigated violent and organized crime, among other things. Needless to say, Paz wasn’t doing things halfway either.

“I’d rather not do things over the phone, if that’s okay with you. Can we meet instead? I have some things to show you.”

Mando didn’t like this, and the FBI agent took his silence as confirmation of that fact.

“I understand you’re close to a town called Raymond. There’s a café where we can meet tomorrow morning.”

Mando liked the fact that she knew where he was even less.

“I can make sure no one will be looking for you there, if that’s your worry. And you don’t need to bring the kid.”

He sighed and she sighed in reply.

“Look, you need my help, and this is how it’s going to work. I need to see you face to face.”

“What do you need to show me?” he inquired.

“I know why they are so interested in the boy. I found out what happened to his parents, and…”

“Are they alive?” Mando quickly interrupted her.

“I’m afraid not.”

He’d had a hunch since the start – more than a hunch, really. But it still pained him to have it confirmed. There would be no happy reunion, then. The kid was an orphan.

“Tell me where to be and at what time and I’ll be there.”

She had convinced him. He needed to do what was best for the child, now. And if that meant meeting a federal agent in the open, then so be it.

He relayed all this to Paz afterwards, and he understood Agent Dune had been keeping him informed as well.

“How do you know her?” Mando asked him, curious.

“Our paths crossed some years ago,” he answered evasively. “I promise you can trust her, kid. She’s solid, you’ll see.”

Mando didn’t think he had much choice anyway. With the road blocks still in place, as confirmed by Paz and Dune, there wasn’t much he could do on his own.

Omera told him she could watch over the boy for him the next morning – that was a relief, as he indeed preferred not to take him with him.

“My shift isn’t until the afternoon, and Winta will be thrilled to have your son for a little longer.”

He had also explained to her that things might move quickly after that. If Agent Dune had a plan of action that could secure the kid’s safety, he’d take it. But he needed to hear it first. He’d vowed to protect the boy, no matter what. Even if it meant putting himself at risk. He wouldn’t hesitate to walk away if he didn’t think it would work.

As though the kid could feel how important the next day might be, he had trouble falling asleep that night. Winta had already gone to bed, and Mando stood over the boy’s crib in the living room, having read him several stories already.

“Maybe you’re the one keeping him awake, he can probably feel how anxious you are,” pointed out Omera.

 _Anxious_. That didn’t cover it by half, but he stayed silent on the subject.

“Or maybe it’s the chocolate cake Winta fed him for dessert,” he reminded her.

Omera smiled – he had been a pretty sight, as about only half the cake had made it to his mouth, the rest decorating his hands and face.

“She washed him and brushed his teeth afterwards, that was only fair,” she noted.

“Brushed his teeth?” Mando repeated, frowning.

“Yes, Winta took him upstairs while we were clearing the table, remember? Then you got your call?”

“I do remember, but I had no idea she brushed his teeth. I had no idea you were supposed to do that. I mean, I know he has teeth, but I just never thought…” He was getting himself worked up, rushing in his words.

“It’s okay, it’s just baby teeth after all,” reminded him Omera with a grin. But Mando wasn’t smiling, and it took her a few seconds to realize how much it mattered to him.

“That’s fine, you didn’t know, you can start doing it now,” she tried to reason him.

He wasn’t listening to her. This was just one more thing he was messing up. A little thing, maybe, but on top of all his other fuck ups it started to amount to a lot. He was not meant to be taking care of a kid. A _baby_. What did he know about them? Nothing! What the hell had he been thinking? He was such a f…

“Hey, can you hear me?” Omera interrupted his thoughts. But it wasn’t her words that did it. It was her hands on his shoulders. Warm and still. Her thumbs brushing against his neck.

Mando raised his head and stood taller. The hands stayed where they were, the pressure almost imperceptible but there.

“You’re doing fine, it’s only been a week.”

He tried not to think about the fact that he would soon not be the one who had to worry about such things. But who was he kidding? He would always worry. Even when the child was no longer with him.

“It’s admirable, really, for you to take it so seriously.”

 _Admirable. Him._ Mando snorted in mirthless laughter, his head dropping to his chest again. Her hands slid to his face and he stood very still.

“Fathers who’ve had _months_ just to get used to the _idea_ of a child have shown far less passion and willingness to learn than you.”

He risked looking into her eyes, but only saw raw honesty there.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she added quietly, her thumbs stroking his cheeks once before removing her hands.

Omera wished him goodnight, and the word stayed stuck in his throat.

The child slept. He didn’t.

He was only able to operate automatically the next morning. Greet the kid with a hug and mindless chatter, change him, feed him a bottle while Omera and Winta had breakfast, inquire where the café Agent Dune wanted to meet was located, and make his way out, safe in the knowledge that the boy would be well looked after.

It felt strange to be back behind the wheel, and even stranger not to see the kid in his rear-view mirror.

He drove carefully, but Dune had been true to her words – he found no road blocks to access the café. Although he had probably passed through the small town two days ago, he had no memory of the place. He would have been surprised to find any police or federal presence anyway given its remoteness.

The weather had turned even grimmer than the day before, and somehow fitted his mood: the wind was strong, making it hard to close his door, and the clouds over the sea to the west hung low and threatening. Mando raised his hood and entered the café.

She was easy to spot, and he now understood what Paz meant when he said she was solid. This was definitely someone he could learn to trust with the kid’s safety. And if his instincts were correct – and they usually were in that department – she was also ex-military.

Mando sat across from her after she returned his nod and they ordered breakfast as though they were old friends meeting. They didn’t say anything before their food was brought over, observing one another carefully.

“Marine, right?” Mando asked her, breaking the ice and reaching for his coffee.

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t correct him.

“You have quite the interesting file as well,” she parried back, and he shrugged in reply.

“How do you know Paz?” he inquired.

“He saved my ass a few years back. I owed him. As he’s kept reminding me regularly any time we’d bump into each other.”

That sounded like Paz alright.

“Is that why you’re helping me?” he pressed.

“That's not the only reason, no. But the fact that Paz vouched for you could make my job easier.”

“And what job is that?”

“Catching Moff Gideon.”

She let that answer settle over him and they ate for a while.

“He’s been on our radar for a long time, as you can imagine. But we’ve never had much of an angle. Our undercover agents didn’t last very long – we lost good people.”

Mando could tell that some of those people had been important to her, even if she wasn’t saying it in so many words.

“Then the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office dropped something on our lap a few months ago. It looked promising, very promising. But now they’re also at a dead end.”

“What was it?”

“A couple of gang members from _La Eme_ were ready to testify. The man was not a mere foot soldier and his girlfriend was involved in deals across state lines – they could prove useful.”

Women were usually not ‘official’ members. But many were known to participate.

She opened a file and took out pictures. Mug shots. They were just kids, barely out of their teens.

“They were arrested?”

“Several times. We don’t even know their real names or where they’re from originally. You know how it is…”

Mando did.

“At first, they wouldn’t talk. And the police had nothing but circumstantial evidence against them, so they would only serve little time, if any.”

“What made them decide to testify?”

“They had a kid.”

“You’re saying…” Mando started, looking at the pictures again more closely.

“That’s the boy’s parents, yeah,” she confirmed.

“What happened?” he asked, his eyes moving from one mug shot to the next. They looked so young…

“We’re not sure. All of a sudden they wanted out, they’d had their fill and wanted a life for their kid, I guess.”

Mando remembered the nurse at the clinic telling him that the kid had been well looked after until recently. Healthy. Happy. The boy had been loved and his parents had tried to protect him the best way they could by getting out of the gang. But he knew better than anyone that it wasn’t so simple.

“If they testified, why isn’t it enough for the District Attorney to build a case against Gideon?”

“Because they were supposed to help us bring the whole network down, not just _La Eme_.”

“The other gangs, you mean?”

“Yes, and that’s where the DA's office asked for our help, they knew the LAPD had leaks and they needed a bigger infrastructure.”

 _No shit_ , thought Mando. But it started making sense in his head – the gangs rallying together to protect their common interests.

“The kid’s parents messed up – they took it upon themselves to provide recordings and documents to the police. We wanted to take things slow, gather intel and evidence gradually, but they were desperate. In the end, they must have trusted the wrong people and they were found out.”

Mando winced – exposed snitches wouldn’t have enjoyed a painless death. Dune showed him more pictures, and the little appetite he’d had was gone.

“What about the kid?”

“We’d assumed he was killed as well – the parents refused to put him under protection. Probably for the best if you ask me, as the LAPD is still trying to figure out how high up the corruption goes in their ranks. The District Attorney decided to prosecute with what he had and go after Moff Gideon and _La Eme_ only for now – better than nothing. But Gideon’s lawyers negotiated a plea: the child against a lesser charge.”

“So he’s just using the child as a bargaining chip?” translated Mando.

“A big one, actually. The DA is up for reelection this year, and an innocent child saved could sway a lot of voters if he plays the media circus well – and he usually does.”

“Do they have Gideon in custody?”

“No, he vanished into thin air a week ago, right after his lawyers’ motion. No one knows where he is.”

Mando sat back, trying to digest everything he’d just learned. Moff Gideon was personally looking for the kid, and he’d sent everyone after him, convincing the other boss’s it was in their best interest. But he was only helping himself – offering the kid would only secure a nicer deal for him, and Mando was certain he wouldn’t hesitate to throw everybody else under the bus once he had the DA’s attention.

“What do you suggest?” he eventually asked the FBI agent.

It took her a while to formulate an answer, which told him she wasn’t pleased with it. She was probably working under orders herself, and he was ready to bet that she hadn’t told anyone about their meeting.

“The child should be taken back to L.A.”

“Absolutely not,” Mando interrupted her, “he won’t be safe there.”

“They need him for the charges against Gideon to hold, he’s proof of what he did to his parents, we’re pretty sure he killed them himself.”

“Bullshit, he’s proof! What, the DA thinks he’s gonna testify in court? He’s a _baby_ , he barely speaks!”

Cara sighed, but didn’t disagree with him.

“The DA’s office has jurisdiction over L.A. Since we don’t have enough at the Bureau to press federal charges, there’s not much we can do.”

“I’m not handing over the kid for him to be treated like a piece of evidence.”

“He’ll be protected.”

“How can you say that? You just told me the LAPD was in tatters. I’m not letting them anywhere near the boy, and that’s final.”

Mando stood up, ready to leave – this had been a colossal waste of time.

“They’re gonna find the kid and kill you. Probably kill the kid too in a fit of rage, and you know it,” she told him very quietly, staying seated. The café was deserted, but it didn’t hurt to be a bit more discreet, and Mando’s explosion hadn’t helped.

He lowered his shoulders slowly, trying to think of something else to add – but there wasn’t, they’d both said their pieces.

“Just think about it, okay? You have my number, call me back,” she asked him.

Mando nodded – he owed Paz’s contact that at least, even though he knew he would do nothing of the sort.

His mind was a jumbled mess as he drove back to Omera’s. So jumbled that he didn’t understand at first what the agitation was all about. Winta was crying and her mom pale and frantic. He parked quickly, his mind already telling him that what he’d feared would happen, had happened.

He ran towards them and he could barely hear Winta’s words through her sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” she kept repeating.

“What happened, where’s the kid?” he asked, kneeling in front of her and raising his eyes towards Omera.

“A man came, he took him! I swear I tried to stop him but he pushed me, hard! I’m sorry Mando, I’m sorry! I screamed and mom came but it was too late, he was gone! She wouldn’t let me run after them!”

“When was this?” he asked quickly.

“Just a few minutes ago, they used the other access road, they didn’t have a car.”

“They?”

“It was two men.”

“What did they look like?”

“The big man stayed behind, and the one who took your son had dark hair slicked back and a moustache. Older than you. Scarier than you.”

 _Moff Gideon, no doubt about it_. He didn't have much time.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken him outside, I thought it would be safe! It’s all my fault!”

Mando had been about to stand up, but this was important.

“Winta, look at me,” he pleaded. “This wasn’t your fault, never. It’s my fault. But I’m gonna get him back, you hear?” When she eventually nodded, the tears still running freely on her cheeks, he stood up. Omera hadn’t said a word and still stood frozen behind her daughter. There was nothing he could say to her to make things better – empty words of reassurance wouldn’t work.

He ran to the house, looking for one bag in particular and gathering all his and the kid’s stuff quickly. He had to keep telling himself this was only a set-back – he’d get the boy then they’d have to run off again, destination unknown. He switched the tablet on once everything was in the car, ready to go, hoping with all his might that it still worked, that it wasn’t too late. That the tiny GPS tracker he had found in Paz’s gadgets’ bag and hidden in the baby’s diaper that morning would still emit a signal.

It did, and he sighed in relief. He wasn’t far, but the dot was moving quickly, heading north – they were not on foot anymore. Mando needed help.

In a split second, he had made up his mind, and used his satellite phone to call Agent Dune.

“Already?” she replied after the first ring.

“He took him. Gideon. I need your help.”

“Tell me where,” she replied, and that was it.

“I’m gonna find him,” he vowed to Omera and her daughter before driving away. And this time, his words seemed to work a bit better.

They met in a place called Westport, Mando following the moving dot on his tablet and telling Dune where to go. Gideon and the kid were moving fast, but he wasn’t sure how precise the location was – it wasn’t very detailed. He exited the car quickly and the FBI agent arrived a minute later – they should have been close, but he could only see a harbor and the ocean in front of him.

“The tracker doesn’t give you altitude?” she surmised, looking at the screen.

“No, it’s basic and tiny, that’s why I managed to hide it in his diaper.”

“Why the diaper?” she asked, puzzled.

“Because the clothes, they can change. The diaper, they won’t,” he replied simply.

“So could they be…”

And then Mando heard the rotors over the wind, and he cursed himself for his stupidity.

“…flying?”

They ran to the harbor, the helicopter over their heads now. It was flying low over the coast, struggling against the wind. Visibility was poor, but Mando realized that this was Gideon’s solution to avoid the road blocks, despite how unsafe it was at the moment. Their best bet was to follow by boat, as driving would mean going all around the bay and waste precious time. The weather worried him, and he hoped the pilot knew what he was doing – his kid was inside.

“Can you steer this and take us across the bay?” he asked, eyeing a rigid-hulled inflatable boat with an outboard motor tied to the quay.

The dark look she gave him was answer enough – once a Marine, always a Marine.

The helicopter, still ahead of them, was fighting against the elements, but they weren’t faring any better, the waves drenching them in seconds. The other side of the bay, a long stretch of sand according to the tablet, was only two or three miles away. But it took forever to reach it, Mando hoping as they were making their bumpy way that the pilot would make the sensible decision, the one he’d make if he were in his shoes.

He got his wish as they were about to reach the sand – the helicopter was landing on the beach.


	10. In rainbows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks like I don't want this story to end... Sorry for the delay in posting, and for all the angst in this chapter. Hope you're still enjoying the journey! Thanks for all the love. :)

Once Cara docked on the small jetty, Mando had to restrain himself from jumping out of the boat and make a run for the helicopter, which had landed barely fifty yards ahead of them. They needed to figure out their approach, even when every fiber of his being was screaming at him to get moving, now. That his kid was right there.

“Are you packing?” he asked Cara over the wind, as they were crawling to a stop on top of the sand dune separating them from the beach in order to remain hidden.

She gave him a now familiar dark look. “Just my service weapon and a couple of clips, though. You?”

“About the same,” he replied, feeling for the reassuring shape of his gun at his back.

“How heavily do you think he’s armed?”

Mando shrugged - anything was possible.

“I’m thinking it’s Gideon, plus someone else. I don’t know if the man he was with when he took the kid was the pilot, so it might be three in total.”

Cara nodded in reply, and he could see her mind working, cataloguing scenarios and outcomes – he was doing the same.

“You think they landed because of the weather?” she inquired.

“I’m certain of it, they didn’t mean to stop. They were probably flying north for the border but visibility is awful, especially over the ocean. And that’s not taking the wind into account.”

“So are they just waiting for it to clear a bit?”

No one had gotten out of the aircraft yet, and they couldn’t see any movement inside from where they were. The reassuring dot was still showing on his tablet, though. Mando stared at the horizon – what he could see of it – and did a small circuit around him, trying to decipher how thick the clouds were.

“Visibility might improve, especially in the east, but that must be the direction they want to avoid. The wind isn’t going anywhere, though.”

“So you’re thinking what I’m thinking…” Cara concluded.

“Yeah,” Mando confirmed.

“They’re calling for backups right now.”

“Yeah,” he repeated.

The FBI agent cursed.

“I’m guessing there’s no point asking if you’re going to do the same, and call in your Bureau friends.”

She cursed some more.

“By the time I’m done explaining what the hell I’m doing here, with _you_ of all people, Gideon will be in the wind again. Literally.”

“I’m not letting him have the kid,” Mando declared, “and I’m not letting the District Attorney have him either,” he added. “I’m getting him back, with or without your help.”

Cara sighed, but took out her gun.

“You get the kid, I’m getting Gideon, we’ll figure out the rest later.”

“Deal,” Mando agreed, copying her movements.

Their best bet to remain hidden was to circle the helicopter from the back, which they did, but frankly Mando was past caring at this point – Moff could notice them coming all he liked, as far as he was concerned. Even better if he did, actually. They would get this over with faster. But that was before he remembered how much _La Eme_ ’s boss liked the sound of his own voice.

No sooner had they gotten near the helicopter doors that they opened, as if they’d been waiting for them patiently – and maybe they had. Mando tried to focus on the positive first: it was just Gideon and the big man Winta had described, who was doubling as a pilot. And the latter was the only one armed. On the downside, he was equipped with a compact submachine gun, something that could fire 900 rounds in under a minute. The fact that the magazine only held 20 bullets was of little comfort. Their guns were virtually useless against it.

“Finally, we were almost worried no one would show up,” announced the boss with a smile.

Gideon wasn’t armed, but what he held against his chest was just as lethal to Mando: the child. Wailing. Jerking restlessly against the hard man’s bruising grip. That was a smart move – with the boy’s unpredictable and wide movements, the boss was safe in the knowledge that anyone shooting at him would risk harming the kid.

“Obviously, this is only a matter of a few minutes, as my men should soon be arriving by road, but this will give us enough time to chat.”

Cara was holding the pilot at gunpoint, for all the good it did, and he knew he was supposed to keep his muzzle in Gideon’s direction to maintain their small advantage, but his aim kept on wavering, his shoulders shaking with the strength needed to counter his first instinct. _Don’t shoot the kid, don’t shoot the kid, don’t shoot the kid…_

“To think we weren’t able to properly introduce ourselves the last time we talked in Karga’s office…”

The boy now making grabbing motions in his direction, his cries just as strong and just as agonizing. Mando wouldn’t be able to resist for long. He couldn’t keep pointing the gun at the child, and the next outburst, although expected, almost broke him.

“Dada!”

“How sweet, at least the little one has a name for you. I know you by another one though, Din Djarin. ”

Mando stopped breathing, but Gideon wasn’t done.

“And you brought Carasynthia Dune with you, how fitting. I can still remember the look on her young agents’ faces when I pulled the trigger.”

Cara’s reaction was more noticeable than his, and she was now aiming at Moff. But changed her mind with a groan when he smiled, and she switched back to the pilot, who didn’t need to be any more threatening than he already was, his Uzi trained in both their directions.

“I can’t believe I almost made the same mistake twice, thirty years apart. Granted, when I was sent to kill your parents I was only a young member who’d recently taken on the oath. So I had an excuse for not searching the house properly for you. But for this little one…” Pressing the kid harder against his chest and triggering a louder howl. “I should have been more careful.”

Mando couldn’t move, speak let alone think over the droning sound growing in his mind. Swallowing all his being. Destroying him. Erasing him. Scattering what was left in the wind.

“The look on your face right now tells me your old boss never had the nerve to tell you, then. I know he wanted to, in the end. Tell you that it was _my_ old boss who told him to come and get you in the house, and do with you what he wanted. And now here we are, coming full circle, with you also choosing to keep the kid alive.”

The gun was still pointed in Gideon and the child’s direction by sheer reflex. Mando was oblivious to the movements of his own body. Untethered. Detached. Gone.

“You _NF hermanos_ are so weak,” he added with disdain in his voice.

His right hand holding the gun’s grip, his left balancing its weight and steadying his aim. Just like they had taught him in the army, the instructors correcting the way he’d been using weapons for years already. The right hand takes the shot, but the left hand decides when. Listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat, then shoot. Aim with your heart, press the trigger with your brain. Left, and right. The lone star of Chile on his left hand, the dragon on his right hand. His heart and his brain. His parents and his military training.

His brain telling him to shoot, his heart stopping him.

“But I’m not making any mistake, now.”

The child was staring straight at him, huge brown eyes begging for it all to be over. To be held, to be safe, to be loved.

“You need the kid alive.” Cara’s voice, coming from his left.

“Oh yes, what a nice prospect. Hand the child over and watch him become a symbol of the government’s failure at protecting innocent victims in the war on drugs. His parents are still dead. He’ll grow up in foster care in Los Angeles. A thriving environment, to be sure. And the gangs will be ready to welcome him back when he’s old enough. Din can empathize with his situation.”

That name again. Crushing whatever force had been keeping his arms raised. The last time he’d heard it was in his mother’s voice.

Mando dropped the gun.

Gideon dropped the kid.

Then a flurry of motions Mando didn’t see, because he was focusing on one thing only, the child. He fell to his knees, hoping the soft sand he could feel under him had also protected the kid from hurting himself.

“Mando!”

He raised his head at Cara’s voice, in time to see the gun Moff was pointing in his direction. There was a shot before he had time to realize that the boss had been waiting for him to drop the gun he could still just touch with his left hand to grab his own. A grunt of pain and another gun touching the sand softly. Gideon’s. Then three shots in rapid succession and a hiss. By then, Mando had gripped his piece again, and shot the pilot twice.

The pilot was dead. Cara was bleeding. The child was crying. And Moff Gideon was running.

“Cara?” he checked, noting it was the first time he was using her name.

“Through and through, one bullet,” she replied, pressing against her side with gritted teeth. “Fucker couldn’t aim for shit.”

The kid standing up slowly, stumbling in his direction with his arms raised, unharmed.

A look at Cara again, then at the boy reaching out for him, and then at Moff’s retreating form.

“Don’t!”

But Mando was running.

He was fast, always had been, and Gideon was hurt. It should have been easy to catch up with him, but he was running close to the water edge towards the access road, where the sand was soaked in water and spongy. His ankles were digging in deep with each stride, sending shooting pain to his lower back. Mando couldn’t let him reach his men who were bound to show up. No matter what. Who cared if he could feel the staples closing his fresh knife wound tearing at his skin? It was almost over. There was no point pretending he was running after Moff to protect the kid – said kid was safe, and he had just abandoned him and Cara. This was for him and him only.

With a desperate lunge, he jumped at Gideon’s back, sending him face first in the water. They struggled, Mando pressing him in the shallow depth with all his might. The fast sprint had winded him more, and he was struck by his opponent’s remaining strength. He managed to turn around and breathe air again, his arms and legs doing their best to push Mando off. The water was cold and meant finding purchase on skin was difficult. He couldn’t prevent Gideon’s fists striking him, his knees digging hard against his stomach. He screamed out loud when a kick caught his bad side but didn’t stop, doing all he could to maintain the other man’s head in the water, which was just deep enough.

Mando got his hopes up when Gideon stopped struggling, but he realized his mistake when a vicious hit landed just above his left ear.

That hadn’t been a fist.

The searing pain pierced his skull deep and brutal. He saw a bloodied rock in the older man’s hand before his vision started blurring. His whole left side was becoming numb, his body betraying him despite his rage. Half collapsing despite his valiant efforts, Gideon had no trouble reversing their positions, and pushed his head in the cold water. Mando was only able to take in breaths at irregular intervals, coughing, spluttering, struggling against the current and Moff’s pressing hands.

The ringing in his ears and the ocean drowned out all other sounds. He could just about see Gideon’s lips moving but not hear the words. It was probably something along the lines of how stupid he was. How stupid it had been to run head first into danger after him. Unprepared and unarmed. Something he never did. But he had been listening to his heart, and not his brain. He wanted Moff to pay for what he had done. To his parents. To the kid’s parents. To him. All the lies that had shaped his life and that still threatened to unravel now if he let them.

But he couldn’t, he needed to stay alive.

Not for him, he realized, as he couldn’t suppress water entering his lungs. He was done being selfish. He needed to let Mando go. Mando could die. Worse than that, he wanted him to die. Him and all he represented. But perhaps Din would be allowed to live again and come out of his cupboard. And perhaps he could make sure the kid wouldn’t be subjected to the same kind of life Mando had known.

Mando stopped struggling.

Gideon stopped pushing.

He waited a few extra seconds, unmoving, his whole chest burning, then toppled the startled man over him by swinging at his ankles. The water was deeper there, and Mando used both his hands to press around Gideon’s neck and dig his head in the sand. His numb body no longer felt the fists and kicks, but they weren’t as vigorous as before. He just focused his eyes on his two tattoos joining strength to put an end to Moff Gideon and all he meant. His right hand and his left hand. Together. Until it was over, and still after that for good measure.

Only then did he remember to breathe. And cough. And breathe again.

He collapsed a few feet away on his back, and the wind made him appreciate again how cold the water had been. He coughed some more – deep, wracking barks that shook his whole body and hurt something fierce. Mando wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to breathe properly again. His hearing was still muffled and the left side of his head throbbing. It was hard to tell if the liquid he could feel dripping down his neck was water or blood, but his vision was somehow improving, and from his prone position he could see the sun starting to peek behind the clouds over him. The sand was soft, and he just wanted to close his eyes, right here and there on the beach, despite his rattling teeth and wheezing breath.

“Mando!”

So maybe now wasn’t the time to sleep, then. Cara was standing over him. The child in her arms. He had calmed down, despite how uncomfortable the FBI agent looked holding him. Part pain, part awkwardness, he guessed.

“Are you okay?” she asked, although he read the words on her lips more than he heard them.

Mando nodded, then decided that one, he needed to cough some more, and two, moving his head was a bad idea right now. He’d have passed out if he wasn’t already lying down. Needless to say, standing up was the last thing he wanted to do, but Cara didn’t need to remind him that they would soon have visitors, and neither of them was capable of taking them on.

“We have to go, come on,” she pressed, and helped him up.

It would have been comical if the situation wasn’t so dire – she was taking on half his weight, while wincing in pain over her bullet wound and holding a wriggling toddler.

“You’re soaked through, and cold,” she complained, as they slowly made their way to the drier part of the beach, his right arm over her shoulders and the baby trying to press his small hands against his face.

“Can you hear that?” Cara said, stopping.

Mando could barely hear the sound of his own rough breaths over his pounding skull, and just managed to prevent a shake of his head.

“No,” he uttered.

“We’re gonna have company soon,” she announced, looking behind her.

Mando trusted her on that, as turning at the moment was beyond him. He only wanted to look ahead, and what he saw reminded him of Paz’s parting words when he left Bolinas. _Fly, fight, win._ Well, he was pretty sure he was done fighting. And despite how shitty he felt, he had won. There was only one item left.

“You’re not serious,” blurted Cara, following his line of sight. “You can barely stand!”

“I don’t intend to pilot standing up,” he countered, and she grumbled in answer, clearly not a fan of banter.

They’d started walking once more, as quickly as they could in their states. Sounds were beginning to make sense again, and Mando thought he could hear cars behind them, now. Still some way off, but worryingly there. The child was also making himself known, complaining at Mando’s apparent indifference.

“ _Lo siento, cariño. Lo siento mucho_ ,” he whispered, wishing he could take him in his arms. But he was cold and drenched and in pain. And yes, that was definitely blood dripping on his forehead and ear and neck. And more blood was running low on his back where the staples had ripped.

They now faced the helicopter again, the dead pilot lying where he had fallen.

“Are you sure you can fly this thing?” pressed Cara, and he hoped his answering stare was just as dark as the ones she had given him earlier when he doubted her skills.

“I don’t think we can make it to the boat.” And Cara’s worried look at what was transpiring behind them was proof enough of the veracity of his words.

“What about the weather?” she still added, even though she was following him inside the aircraft.

“It cleared up,” he answered, and it had. He could definitely see the sun now.

“And the wind?”

“It’s just wind,” he shrugged, regretting the movement immediately.

Yes, the wind was still just as bad. And yes, the medium sized Bell 212 wouldn’t have been his first choice with its mere two blades and twin engine. But he’d piloted its military counterpart, the Twin Huey, countless times, and he found himself at home once sitting in the cockpit.

 _Checklist, checklist, checklist…_ He thought, or said out loud, he was no longer sure. Pilots lived for checklists, and he was no different. Helos, especially the smaller ones, had never been his favorite aircraft – they were unpredictable, moody little shits at the best of times – but the good thing about them was that taking off was the easy part. He wouldn’t tell Cara that the flying would actually be the problematic bit, though.

His checks completed – they’d have enough fuel for 200 miles at least – he put on his headset, gestured for Cara to do the same and strap herself and the kid as best as she could, and then they were off. And just in time, as he could see at least five heavy SUVs reaching the beach, paying little mind to the end of the road in their rush.

He set his pain and worries aside over the sound of the rotors, his brain automatically switching to piloting mode. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by anything, as the wind required all his attention. He kept on calculating speeds and angles and altitudes to avoid the worst of it, but it was still a struggle. Mando radioed in, protocol deeply ingrained in his training, and for the life of him wasn’t sure how he had introduced himself to the operator. He’d probably given his USAF credentials without thinking, but it seemed to do the trick, and when he asked for the nearest trauma center to land, he was granted the necessary coordinates to Providence St. Peter Hospital in Olympia.

Dimly aware that they all needed to be checked out and treated, his biggest worry remained the kid, who hadn’t stopped crying since they took off. Cara had placed a headset over his ears, but it was probably too big and uncomfortable for him to block the noise properly, and he kept removing it.

Mando could feel either blood or water trickling in his eyes, but he needed both his hands to fight the wind and answer the incessant beeps of the aircraft. Something else he hated about helicopters. Always warning him about some alert or other.

“Mando…” he heard Cara speak over the comms.

He’d been thinking out loud again, he realized.

“Have you called it in?” he asked, to hide his blunder. His brain was messing with him. He couldn’t hear her answer over the coughing fit taking over him. _Jesus_ , that sounded bad even to his own ears, and the aircraft lunged left.

“Mando!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he answered her unspoken question, then had to focus on his flying again. Their ETA was 30 minutes, but this was in good weather, and with a non (probably) concussed pilot. He heard Cara speak over the radio, but paid no attention to her words, assuming she was talking to her superiors.

He wasn’t sure if it was his vision tunneling in, or the weather turning bad again, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend everything was going well when it wasn’t. The last part of the journey took everything out of him. His head was pounding so hard he could no longer tell where the pain ended and had to refocus constantly on his instruments to register what they were telling him.

The key to their safe landing turned out to be the kid, in the end. When Cara was done reporting back, he asked her to press the headset over his ears again, and did his best to reassure him, speaking his usual Spanish nonsense. Making promises. A lot of them. Promising he’d take him aboard a real airplane next time. Something less noisy. That he’d show him the stars at night once more. That everything would be okay soon. The boy eventually quieted down over the sound of his voice, and Mando found it in him to deliver on his promises. Some of them to start with, at least. He’d focus on the others later on.

He had no memory of how he actually landed on the helicopter pad on the hospital roof, only that when the rotors finally stopped spinning, he coughed so hard and for so long he almost blacked out. Which he eventually did, after seeing blood on his hands.

Mando woke up two days later, feeling marginally worse, but at least he was lying down.

“You almost drowned.”

Cara’s voice. The _idiot_ was implied at the end of her sentence.

“There was a shitload of water in your lungs and you were on a respirator for two days in ICU, they just took out the tube.”

So that was why he felt like he’d been run over by a tank, he thought. His chest was just one block of pain. He could move his hands and toes, but only just.

“No…handcuffs?” he marveled in a gravelly voice, his throat like sandpaper.

Cara waited until he was done coughing – it predictably hurt like a son of a bitch – before she answered.

“No, the matter of your arrest is still under discussion,” she replied.

Mando raised his eyebrows in amazement, thinking it was easier to communicate that way for the time being.

“I heard the staff here wanted to tie you down, though. You kept fighting them and trying to remove your tube.”

This he briefly remembered, in vivid flashes.

“How are you?” he managed to ask her eventually.

“Barely a scratch, I’ll live. I’m not the best patient either and they were glad to quickly get rid of me.”

Swallowing painfully around his inflamed throat. Waiting for her to say it but no words were forthcoming.

“The kid?”

“He’s fine. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, but I made sure they checked him over thoroughly.”

“And he’s…where?”

A beat. And her voice turned softer.

“CPS took him yesterday, he’s being processed in Seattle.”

“Not L.A.?” he confirmed, trying to focus on the positive.

“Not L.A., not for now at least.”

Mando nodded and winced.

“Oh yeah, you have a concussion as well, I forgot to tell you. And they had to do surgery on your back. Something about repairing damaged tissue.”

He tried to stay very still but the pain, emotional rather than physical – although he would never admit it – was immense. Mando thought Cara could understand his predicament, because she mumbled something about getting him a nurse or a doctor to adjust his meds. Alone in the room, he still rolled on his good side, not minding the discomfort. Warm tears were spilling from his eyes and he didn’t know what to do about them. So what if he had hoped to see the kid one last time? He couldn’t expect the authorities to simply wait for him to wake up though, right? That was silly. And he’d fulfilled his mission – the kid was safe, Moff Gideon was dead. Why did he feel so desperately, desperately sad? It made no sense. The boy would be fine. He was no father and he’d almost had him killed. Several times. Anyone would be better suited to take care of him.

Eventually, he slept. When he woke up again, it was dark. Just him and his thoughts for a change. The drugs coursing through him made things a little better, but he couldn’t escape the stark realization that he had no idea what was expected of him, now. He’d feel better if he was under arrest, because that would at least give him something to focus on. He tried not to think about Gideon’s revelations on the beach, but it was almost impossible not to. His whole life had been one big lie. But there was no one left to lay the blame on. Well, not really anyway. His old boss was also dead, and Greef had never truly been his enemy.

Come morning, he thought he’d made up his mind, and was glad to see Cara again once visitors’ hours started.

“Here to arrest me this time?” he asked, only half-joking.

“No, not yet,” she replied, “but I still have a few things to discuss with you.”

She sat down next to his bed, and Mando raised the mattress. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t like having to look up at her.

“The Los Angeles District Attorney is coming to talk to you. Just talk, mind. But he’s a bit pissed.”

“I wonder why…”

“Well, he’s not just pissed at you,” she admitted. “See, when you had the bright idea of disposing of Gideon here in Washington, this meant we got federal jurisdiction. And we managed to arrest quite a lot of his guys, too. Many trying to abscond to Canada. Turns out, loyalty isn’t that great once the boss is dead, and several are now willing to talk.”

Mando wasn’t surprised – the hierarchy in _La Eme_ , as in most gangs, was strictly pyramidal. Leaderless, they wouldn’t know who to turn to.

“That was stupid of me, running after him like that,” he voiced out loud, feeling it needed to be said.

“Yeah, and you almost died,” she confirmed. “Still, I would have done exactly the same as you, if I hadn’t been shot.”

“Thanks for saving my ass,” he added.

“Tell that to Paz,” she asked with a smile, and he nodded slowly, the movement starting to feel a little less painful.

“And I should be the one thanking you, really. You just made my life a lot easier. And between the two of us, Gideon’s place wasn’t in prison.”

Mando wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he remained silent.

“My report should help your case, hopefully. It reflects that you acted to protect a FBI agent who’d been shot at and a kid.”

“Not really…” he countered.

“Yes, really. Now we just have to hope we can make the charges against _La Eme_ hold. We wanted to come down on your old gang as well, and the gang members we caught are not very high up, but we should have enough,” Cara tried to convince herself.

“About that,” Mando started, knowing there was no turning back now, “I might have some stuff to help.”

“I’m listening.”

“But in exchange, I want something.”

“Immunity? That shouldn’t be too hard if you have the goods.”

“No, I don’t care about that,” he replied, surprising her. “What I want, is for the kid never having to be part of the investigation or the legal proceedings. He should stay in Washington and not go back to L.A., unless you find his family.”

“You really care about him,” she marveled.

“He doesn’t deserve to be used. And I really don’t give a shit if it hurts your case, but I’m pretty sure what I have to share is more valuable.”

“Well, it’s only going to piss the DA a bit more, but if you do mean to help our investigation…”

“I do,” he confirmed.

“Then it’s no longer going to be his case, anyway. Depending on what you can give us, it could turn big. Much bigger than L.A. or California even.”

Mando nodded again, thinking of all the files he had accumulated over the years and hidden on a remotely accessible private server. The recordings, shipment manifests, inner going-ons and illegal trades and proceedings of both _Nuestra Familia_ and _La Eme_. His insurance policy, collected over his time of servitude, that had only been meant to be used as an incentive to let him go for good. He was pleasantly surprised that Paz hadn’t been using the credentials he’d given him in Bolinas and told Cara about it already. He’d kept true to his word, and let Mando decide what to do with them.

He mentioned a few examples to her, and she whistled, definitely interested.

“And you’d be ready to testify to everything? This would have to be closed proceedings, it could be dangerous for you.”

“Anything. It’s time.”

“You should still get a lawyer, a good one,” she pressed, frowning.

“I really don’t care about that, as long as the kid is kept out of it.”

“You should care, you idiot. Let me look into it before you say anything, alright? You might need to go into witness protection.”

Mando shrugged. “No need for that, I have the most perfect identity lined up, already. My own.”

“I _did_ look into that, actually. The name Gideon used. And you were declared legally dead 30 years ago, you’re a ghost.”

“Perfect, then,” he said, glad that she wasn’t pressing for more. If she’d found his name, she knew exactly what had happened to him already. 

“Din Djarin,” she whispered, as if his name was still taboo, somehow.

The silence that followed should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. As if their shared experience over the last few days equated to years of friendship.

“Din,” she tried again, testing the word. It still sounded strange to hear it, but Mando was getting better at reacting normally.

“Were you like…a very loud baby?” she asked, not believing that was the case for a second – no way he had been.

Mando laughed genuinely, something else Cara had a hard time believing.

“No, it means ‘faith’ in Arabic,” he replied.

She didn’t think that was answer enough and she raised her eyebrows in question.

“My mother told me she read it in a book – she loved books – and the name just stuck, she liked it,” he added.

He’d started remembering small things he thought he’d forgotten. As if hearing his name again had unlocked a whole chapter of his life he had assumed lost forever.

“It’s nice,” she confirmed. “Suits you, somehow. But you’re a dead man if you start calling me Carasynthia, are we clear?”

“We’re clear,” he promised with a small smile.

She stayed with him when the DA visited, and he was grateful, as the man hadn’t been pleasant, and kept on making threats. Under Cara’s recommendation, he remained silent, and let her do the talking. It was her case now, and Mando was glad he had decided to help her – he could see her sense of justice was more in line with his own. The District Attorney was an elected official, and his principles seemed showy and forced.

Cara left after the DA’s departure, promising she would do her best to follow his wishes regarding the boy, and he asked her for one last favor.

“There’s this woman and her kid in Raymond. I was staying with them when you called. Could you let them know the child is safe? Omera and Winta, I don’t know their last name. Paz might know, though.”

She nodded, and urged him to rest. But there was no rest for him, as a new visitor showed up shortly after. One he didn’t recognize at first. An old man, small and wrinkled, who seemed to have difficulty walking.

“Din? It’s you, isn’t it? Little Din?”

The hoarse voice and honest blue eyes did ring a bell. And the man knew his real name after all.

“Yes?” he replied, frowning. The man looked helpless, but his stare was powerful.

“You look so much like your father. You’re not little Din any more…” he uttered with a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, who…”

“I’m Kuiil. I worked with your father. I’m sorry I didn’t look for you more. I’m sorry I thought you were dead.”

Apologies were not something he was used to, and he didn’t know how to react. He didn’t feel like staying in bed anymore either, so he suggested they went for a walk in the ward instead, something the doctor hadn’t actually recommended, but he needed a change of scenery. And hear what the old man had to say.

Mando quickly realized that he wasn’t limited at all – the man’s mind was intact, and sharp. It was good that he walked slowly though, as Mando’s breath was still uncomfortably short. 

Kuiil had been an Executive Assistant District Attorney in Los Angeles in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. And Mando’s father an Assistant District Attorney under him. His “partner”, “the most promising prosecutor” he’d known, Kuiil called him, delighting him in old stories of their cases together.

“He was fearless. Except when it came to you. He decided to take on the gangs, but realized too late he’d bitten more than he could chew.”

“That’s why they came after us?” Mando asked, as they were making slow circuits in the corridors.

“Yes, and I felt so guilty, son. So guilty… I should have stopped him sooner, but he was adamant. He wanted to make Los Angeles a safer place.”

Mando stopped, leaning against the wall. “I just remember him as working in an office,” he said, wishing his mind could let him recall more.

“You were young. But he loved you and your mom so much, Din. He never would have wanted you hurt.”

And yet, this did hurt, Mando thought. To be told something he’d known all along. He _had_ been loved. He had _meant_ something to people.

“And when they were killed and there was no trace of you, no ransom demand or anything… I just assumed…”

“That I was dead, too,” Mando finished.

The old man looked so forlorn and so remorseful that he didn’t have the heart to feel anything but sympathy towards him.

“I am so sorry, Din. And when I heard that the District Attorney meant to prosecute you, I came as quickly as I could. And I tried to find out as much as possible about your situation. But you’re gonna have to tell me everything now, son. Because I’m not letting that opportunistic media-freak asshole cause you any more trouble, you hear me? You need a lawyer now, and that’s me. No one else is gonna hurt you, I promise.”

Mando blamed his burning eyes on his physical pain this time, and they sat down in the cafeteria to talk. He’d found an ally where he had never expected one.

There was one more surprise visitor the next day. In full uniform, which Mando thought was overdoing it a bit.

“I’m reporting back tonight,” Paz argued. “My plane is leaving Sea-Tac in three hours.”

But Paz had always liked making an entrance. And he was convinced it had helped him reach him quicker. He was seeing him outside of visiting hours, after all. And he’d brought his stuff from his car. Well, _Paz’s_ car, actually. But it felt good to wear his own clothes over his hospital gown when they went for a walk outside.

“Keep the car, by the way,” Paz pressed. “It looks like a crime scene in there, and Cara said it should be released to you, soon.”

“Thanks,” Mando replied, still having a hard time imagining what his life was going to be like outside the hospital.

“Please try to stay out of harm’s way for a while if possible, kid. I shouldn’t be posted overseas in the near future, but this has just been ridiculous. I can’t keep worrying like that. Your luck is bound to run out at one point.”

Mando stayed silent and focused on his steps. He wasn’t used to people minding whether he was alive or dead. 

“Oh, and Cara said she reached that woman, Omera. She was glad to hear the boy was safe, apparently. And she asked after you as well…”

“What did Cara say?” Mando asked too quickly, and Paz smiled knowingly.

“That you weren’t dead,” he replied blankly.

“Oh, well, that’s good, then,” he nodded, trying to look unconcerned and failing.

Paz snorted, but let him off the hook.

Mando recounted Kuiil’s visit the previous day, and shared his reluctance at having someone defending his interests. It still felt wrong to him to escape his violent past unscathed. Kuiil meant to restore his name and have him sign immunity papers before he confessed or shared anything with the FBI.

“Your lack of self-preservation would be laudable if it wasn’t so fucking pointless and stupid, kid” told him Paz.

That stopped him in his slow tracks. He was getting tired of having all his beliefs shattered, one after the other. He’d lost all the bearings that had shaped his identity until now. It was more difficult than he had expected to let Mando go.

“I should start calling you Din, actually,” Paz realized, somehow reading his thoughts.

“You’ve never called me by my first name. Or my last name, come to that,” he noted.

“True,” conceded his mentor, “you’ll always be ‘kid’, I’m afraid.”

They started walking around the small garden again, both aware of the subject they were consciously avoiding.

“Speaking of kid…” Paz started – of course he was going to be the one mentioning it. “How’s the boy?”

Mando told him what little information he’d gathered from Cara and his pledge to have him stay in Washington in exchange for his testimony, and he didn’t have to pretend that the subject wasn’t a painful one for him. Paz’s upset look told him as much.

“It’s nice of you to want to protect him, but that doesn’t mean you can never seem him again. Surely you can negotiate that with the FBI, too. Seems like they’ll still be getting a lot out of you. More than they are willing to give back, I’m certain.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea…” voiced Mando, giving words to his fears. “Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t see me again. It might confuse him,” he reasoned.

“Confuse _him_? I think you’ve got this wrong, kid. He’s not the one confused. If you want closure, then you should ask to see him again. Even if it’s for the last time. But you both owe each other that.”

Mando nodded, not truly convinced, but never one to go against his old superior’s advice.

So with the FBI’s reluctant but eventually effective aid and Kuiil’s guidance, he found himself at a Child Protective Services’ welcoming center in Seattle a few days later, when he was released from the hospital. He’d quickly calculated in his mind that he hadn’t seen the boy for as many days as they had spent together on the run. It was very possible then that the toddler had forgotten all about him.

It would have been easier that way, he realized.

Because when the kid saw him, his eyes lit up and his arms raised in a familiar gesture. One that hurt infinitely more than his still healing lungs and skull. Mando had no idea if he was allowed to or not, but he listened to his heart and pressed the kid close to his chest, hiding his watery eyes in his regrettably shorn locks.

“Dada,” the toddler babbled happily, and Mando hoped no one could see how badly he was shaking. He’d meant to come here to say goodbye. And instead he found himself making new promises to the child.


	11. Take me with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the last chapter! Enjoy!

“Kuiil? I need your help on something else.”

Those had been his first words once he’d left the welcoming center and had sat, hardly moving, in his car – Paz’s car – and picked up his satellite phone – Paz’s phone – after having spent countless minutes locked in an internal debate. He was at war with his instincts, but one thing was certain: he wanted the child out of there and with him. For good. No matter how illogical it was. And no matter what it would cost him.

Mando wasn’t used to either ask for help (and first, recognize that he _did_ need help) or make decisions for himself. He had always followed orders. Because he had no choice, with the gang and his gratitude towards them for having been rescued and his constant fear of being abandoned again as a child, but also because it simply suited him more, he guessed. He had _decided_ to join the army, after all. One of the few decisions he’d ever made. He wondered what that said about him exactly, to _decide_ to follow orders. But now he was certain of something else. Something he _wanted_ for himself. And that something was the child, safe and in his care.

He kept thinking that Paz had sent him there with this very purpose in mind – his mentor had known what he was doing all along. Mando had just needed to see it for himself. He couldn’t let the kid go. And, amazingly, the kid didn’t seem to want to let him go either. What a strange feeling – to be wanted.

Kuiil, who was already busy taking care of other legal matters for him, still took the time to suggest someone else. A protégé of his, it seemed, who knew family law and could practice in Washington. He met the lawyer the following day in one of Seattle’s numerous cafés.

“Ignacio Gutiérrez”, he introduced himself, “but everybody calls me I.G.”

He was younger than him, tall and rail thin. Mando got the distinct impression that the man was a genius after only a few exchanged words, but that his social kills left a lot to be desired. But no matter, if he was as good as he let on, he could look past his quirky habits and matter-of-fact speech.

“You are an unmarried man of almost forty with current legal problems with both the FBI and the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, no money, no job and no valid identity, a checkered past doing dealings for a well-known criminal organization and you want to adopt an eighteen months old baby boy of unidentified origins whose parents are dead, killed by another well-known criminal organization and remaining family unknown.”

“That’s about the gist of it,” confirmed Mando.

“Single-parent adoptions usually take years, and when the putative adopter is a man, it can take even longer. Even when their profiles are perfect, and yours is definitely not.”

He sat back heavily in his seat, having expected something like that, but still finding the words hard to hear.

“That being said, after having consulted with Kuiil, who I understand is representing you in your current legal problems, once your name – your actual name – is cleared, your file might start looking better. Especially with your military past, and a commendation from the FBI.”

“A commendation from the FBI?”

“If they do not give you one, they are fools,” he commented in his almost mechanical tone.

Mando took the time to taste his coffee – he’d come back to this place, he had never tasted one so good, and the kick of the caffeine was helping him stay on track.

“So you think I might have a chance?”

“For adoption? Difficult to say. To become a foster parent on the other hand, this should be doable.”

I.G. had to explain to him that fostering would be the first step towards legal adoption. And that he could have sole custody of the child and be his legal guardian even if he wasn’t officially his father. It was a lot of technicalities as far as he was concerned, but he didn’t care about labels – as long as the boy could grow up with him, he’d take it.

“What would be the time frame for that?” he asked, fearing he’d miss out on too many milestones in the kid’s life – he already thought the boy had changed in the few days he hadn’t seen him.

“You have to do this step by step: first, focus on clearing your name and deal with your legal issues. Then secure a proper job and a decent apartment – the judge will not even let you have visitation rights without that. Finally, get ready to have your hopes constantly raised then crushed, and answer more questions and fill in more forms than you can imagine.”

Mando was going to need more than caffeine. Although he was trying to project his usual calmness, the lawyer seemed pretty well-versed in reading his clients.

“If you are ready to take all of this on, I will be happy to assist you, and I believe we can win.”

“You really believe that?” he marveled, wondering if the man had been listening to his own words.

“Yes.”

“What about payment? Your payment, I mean,” Mando queried. Kuiil had refused any money, looking at him strangely when he’d suggested it in the first place, but I.G. was a different matter. He knew lawyers’ fees could set him back quite a bit, and he tried not to appear too apprehensive.

“Kuiil tells me you are a pilot, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And as such, you need to fly regularly to retain your license and credentials.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mando.

“You can fly any aircraft?”

“Anything I can rent,” he shrugged.

“And you can take people on board with you?” I.G. pressed.

“Sure.”

“Then let me know next time you are going flying, that will be payment enough.”

“You’ve never been on an airplane?” he uttered, puzzled at the request.

“Not in a cockpit, no. And I heard it was…a very pleasant experience.”

Mando smiled and nodded, hoping his surprise at the younger man’s oddity wasn’t showing.

“You got it,” he promised.

“If no remaining family is found for the child,” he carried on, unfazed, “and from what you have been telling me it seems unlikely, you will have few contenders, if any, as statistically speaking, Latino children, especially boys, are not on top of prospective adopters’ lists.”

They shared a knowing look at that, and Mando was tempted to ask I.G. if he also had personal knowledge on the matter. Maybe he’d get the nerve to ask Kuiil sometime.

“The Washington State Department of Social and Health Services will soon take over from CPS,” the lawyer continued, “and probably place the boy in a home. Once your legal problems are dealt with, you’ll be allowed to visit him there. After a while, we’ll work on getting you weekends. Chaperoned at first, then on your own.”

A lot of red tape, but Mando could kind of understand the point. Still, to know that he could not simply take the child home tomorrow was hard to swallow, although he’d obviously known it was never going to happen. His running away days were over.

“Here in Seattle?” he asked.

“Or in Olympia, but most likely here.”

Mando hadn’t thought about it until now, but he’d known he couldn’t realistically go back to Los Angeles. His life there was over, and had to remain that way for his safety. Seattle was as good a place as any as far as he was concerned – he’d never consciously chosen where to live, as he had moved around a lot with the army and the Air Force. If that was where he was supposed to be if it meant he could see the kid on a regular basis, then so be it.

Finding a job was his first hurdle. He had no résumé to speak of, and obviously no cover letters. He first had to clear his name and hopefully complete his Master’s degree before he could hope for better. It meant finding employment where they didn’t ask too many questions, and paid under the table. That was fine with Mando, as he needed the cash to pay for the furnished, one bedroom apartment he had managed to find. It was just a start, and he didn’t mind the shabby place – he’d known worse.

New to the city, he’d started inquiring in bars. He visited countless establishments before he was pointed in the right direction. He couldn’t pretend to much, but bouncer seemed to be up his alley. He wasn’t the tallest or the meanest looking, and the eye roll he received when he mentioned his military background wasn’t encouraging – Mando guessed all prospective bouncers tried that one – but he was put on a trial period at a shady club in South Park, not far from his place.

They apparently desperately needed more security, but didn’t want to pay for it, as he quickly found out. Still, the money was decent, and he didn’t have to tackle patrons to the ground every day to either frisk them or send them back inside when they hadn’t paid their tabs. Some nights were mind numbingly slow and boring, but he found ways to occupy himself with the other bouncers – no one was interested in talking about their pasts, and that was fine with Mando too, but they all enjoyed a good game.

“What about this one, Din?”

“Check for a knife in his left back pocket,” he advised, no longer starting when people were using his real name.

“Bingo!” said the other man a few seconds later, and didn’t begrudge the five bucks he now owed him.

Needless to say, his services were appreciated, especially when he successfully managed to run after clients who had been causing a scene – not the best way to let his body heal he knew, but the bonus in cash were welcomed – and he was soon given more hours.

It quickly meant he had little time for commodities such as sleeping or eating, but anything that would bring him closer and faster to his goal, get the kid out, was worth the discomfort. He typically worked from 6PM to 3AM, woke up after four or five hours of sleep when he was lucky, went for a run or the gym, studied for his online degree, ate lunch when he remembered or when he met Cara and/or Kuiil to go over his statements, spent the afternoon advising, consulting or testifying to whatever the FBI was throwing at him in person, in closed court or over the phone, then went to work again. An endless loop, that implied thinking about the kid was kept to a minimum, but he preferred it that way.

“You look like shit,” told him Cara one day, probably two months into his new life.

“Thanks,” he replied laconically, but she was right. He had to break up a fight the previous night at the club, and his face had taken a beating.

“When are you going to quit this job? I thought it was just temporary.”

“When are you going to provide me with identity papers and a social security number under my real name?” he countered.

“Soon,” she sighed, “you know how slow administrative processes can be, and I’m doing my best. But really, though, if it’s a money issue, we can pay you. We usually put our informants on a retainer.”

“Is that what I am then, an informant?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, her voice turning softer, “but I worry about you.”

“Don’t, I’m doing fine.”

Mando was used to not having a lot of money at his disposal. But he had to be extra careful these days, as he needed to put enough cash away to secure a better place for when he’d be allowed visitation rights, and to pay for flying time. If it meant he had to skip a few meals, then so be it. This was just a temporary setback, and he’d known several throughout his life. Cara seemed to understand his predicament, though, despite his constant reassurances, and kept on insisting they met for lunch, so that she could put their meals on the Bureau’s tab.

“Paz is gonna have my ass…” she mumbled.

“You’re in contact with Paz?” he asked, surprised.

She shrugged and evaded his question, pressing him to order his food instead.

“I do have some good news, though,” she started again once the waitress had left their table, “it seems that we’re finally going somewhere with your old gang. We’ve secured some more testimonies. But your boss is still in the wind.”

Mando wasn’t surprised Greef had evaporated. He had never really been suited for his line of work, and was probably whiling away his days on some sunny remote island. One that didn’t have extradition agreements with the US. He honestly didn’t care, especially if it meant _NF_ members would be indifferent to his own current whereabouts. He could do with not having to live with a constant target on his back.

“And your lawyer is doing wonders with the DA. He managed to get him to drop the charges against you and let us focus on continuing to build our case with your help.”

He was pretty sure Kuiil had been using tried and true blackmailing methods to get the District Attorney to back off. The old lawyer was an expert in legal intrigues and knew the Los Angeles procedural world like the back of his hand. Mando usually never managed to catch a break, and yet he couldn’t imagine how worse off he’d be now if it wasn’t for Kuiil finding him after all those years. Not for the first time, he wondered how different his life would have turned out if the old man had looked for him a little harder when he was seven. But there was no point focusing on the past and blaming him for something that had never been his fault in the first place – he had to look towards the future, now.

“How are things going with your other lawyer, the eccentric one?”

Cara had met I.G. once, and ‘eccentric’ just about covered it. But the man was proving as valuable as Kuiil, even if things were moving at a snail’s pace.

“I should be allowed to visit the kid in a couple of weeks, I.G. managed to find a more lenient judge who’s willing to give me a chance.”

“That’s good! The little one will be thrilled to see you.”

“I haven’t seen him for such a long time, though. Maybe he’s enjoying his new life…” he wondered out loud, trying not to show how much the thought pained him.

“I’m pretty sure he’s ‘enjoying his new life’ just as much as you are, Din,” she uttered cynically.

“Any news on his family? Or his name?” he asked, changing the subject.

“No, still nothing, we’re not very hopeful. But we _are_ trying.”

Mando nodded. He was of two minds on the subject – part of him hoped someone would claim the kid and he’d be reunited with his closed ones, while the other, bigger part (he could admit that) wished the boy would be his in all but genetics. Still, the child needed a name, and he didn’t want to cast aside his parents’ sacrifice – he’d honor them by restoring it, if he could.

He received a call from Paz the next morning, just as he was about to go for a run. Although he now had a regular cell, his former superior kept using the satellite phone he had given him.

“Cara said you looked like shit,” he started with, skipping formalities.

“Hi, Paz,” he replied, his tone probably not masking his sarcasm.

“What’s the plan, kid, getting yourself killed before the end of the year?”

“It was just a few punches,” Mando argued, “they pay well, and I should soon have enough for a deposit on a better place with room for the boy.”

“Have you been using the cash I gave you in Bolinas?” Paz asked.

“No, it’s in a safe deposit box, I’ll give it back to you next time we see each other.” Mando hadn’t thought his apartment was secure enough to keep the money.

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Did you sell the car?” Paz eventually queried.

“Of course not.” It was in an underground car park he paid by the month, and he was still using it, the empty child seat taunting him every time he looked in the mirror.

“Are you being _stupid_ on purpose?” Angry now, and Mando sat down on his ratty sofa bed, aware that their conversation might actually take a while.

“Paz, I’m doing fine. It’s temporary, and once I get my papers in order I’ll be able to open a bank account and look for something else.”

His assets had been frozen on his L.A.’s account, but there hadn’t been a lot of money left there anyway. It would have been easy to open a new one under a fake name, and his first instincts had been to do so, but he couldn’t jeopardize his tedious legal proceedings. Both I.G. and Kuiil had warned him he was under a microscope now, and that any deviation from the straight and narrow would probably mean never seeing the kid again.

“About that, Cara should have them next week.”

“So soon?” he marveled, remembering his discussion with her the previous day – it hadn’t sounded possible then.

“Yeah, she just wasn’t reaching out to the right people,” he grumbled.

Mando didn’t comment.

“After that, I’ll have your USAF file updated, and you can use it to get whatever job you were aiming for with that degree of yours.”

He refrained from commenting on that either – Paz had probably guessed part of it already.

“Thanks, that might not be easy to have my name changed on everything.”

“I know the right people,” he reiterated, and that was true enough.

“Listen, kid, use that brain of yours and do me a favor – pay the deposit for a better apartment with the cash I gave you, you can reimburse me later, sell the car or not, it’s yours now, and start looking for a better job as soon as Cara delivers the goods. They should have enough for their case now, they can proceed without you.”

Mando sighed, staying silent.

“When are you graduating for your thing?” Paz asked, not minding that he had nothing to say.

“End of the month, I passed the exams but I still need to hand over some essays.”

“Any graduation ceremony I’ll be invited to?”

“It’s an online degree, Paz,” Mando reminded him with a smile.

“Shame. And when are you seeing your boy?”

_Your boy._

“In two weeks. And it’ll be almost three months since he saw me for the last time.”

It kept bothering him. How much time had elapsed already, and how big a chunk of the child’s short life it represented. What if he didn’t recognize him? What if he liked the State home he was living in? What if they never let him have him? What if…

“Say hi to him for me. And take pictures. Soon you’ll be able to spend more time with him.”

Paz hadn’t tried to cheer him up or comfort him, no. He’d kept things real – see the kid, then carry on with his mission to become his legal guardian.

So that’s what he did, and two weeks later he was starting to feel a little more confident. Both Cara and Paz’s promises had come through, and I.G. was able to put forward a much better prospective foster parent to the judge. He was still working his old job, but in a classier club – he even had healthcare coverage for the first time of his life outside of the armed forces. In two more weeks, once he’d graduated, he’d start figuring out if his intended career plan could come to fruition. He now also lived in West Seattle. The place wasn’t _great_ , but it had two bedrooms, it was clean, the neighborhood was safe, and he’d bought actual furniture. He could also park his car outside without fearing it would be stolen, so that was an added bonus.

He hadn’t managed to sleep a wink the night before he was due to visit the boy. It was just for a few hours, and he’d be surrounded by other kids and Human Services workers, but he’d take what he could get. His heart pounding and his stomach like lead, Mando pushed in the door to the big house located a few miles from the city center.

The first thing that struck him was the sheer _amount_ of kids. And the _noise_ they were making. There must have been thirty kids there, of ages ranging from as little as one to twelve or thirteen. Which probably explained why he had such a hard time finding the boy at first: he was sitting in a corner on his own, playing quietly with cubes.

“He’s been a bit withdrawn,” told him the worker who had opened the door for him and introduced herself as Peli. “But this is normal at the beginning.”

 _The beginning?_ It had been months!

“Is he…doing okay apart from that?” Mando asked her, keeping his distances for now, for fear he’d spook the toddler who still hadn’t noticed him.

“We’ve been calling him William for the time being. We know the authorities are still trying to learn more about his past. He’s been a bit difficult with his food and won’t play much with the other children. It’s been hard for him, but he’ll get there, they all do.”

Mando didn’t know where to start: the boy, _his boy_ , a picky eater? He ate anything and everything. Didn’t play with other children? He’d watched him draw with Winta for hours on end. And that name… Realistically, he knew it was better to give him one, but couldn't they have tried to find him something a bit more…suiting?

“You can go play with him if you want, but don’t be surprised if he is a little subdued.”

At least, the lady was nice, Mando conceded. And he knew she was probably doing her best for all those kids.

He slowly walked towards the toddler and sat on the ground in front of him – his hair had grown back a bit, he was pleased to see, and he didn’t look too different physically. The child still hadn’t looked up from his toys.

“ _Hola cariño, ¿no me recuerda?_ ” He asked him, just loud enough for him to hear. Finally, he raised his brown eyes towards him. It wasn’t the smile, or the ‘up’ arms he'd received in the welcoming center, but there was clear recollection there, and Mando breathed in a little easier.

The boy stood up, and he remained frozen on his spot on the ground, wondering what he would do. Mando had his answer quickly, when he walked a little distance away from him then came back armed with a mountain of books, deposited them next to his crossed legs, then unceremoniously sat on his lap, his small back against his chest.

“You want me to read all those to you?” he surmised, a genuine smile playing on his lips.

The curly mop nodded, and that was it.

They weren’t interrupted until it was time for an afternoon snack, and Mando was immensely grateful. He’d treasure those quiet moments once they’d be forced to separate again. The boy barely spoke, but he helped him turn the pages, his small hand against his, and nodded every time Mando asked if he wanted another story.

The child – he refused to call him William – didn’t leave his side for the snack, and ate everything he put in his plate. Mando tried not to look too gleeful at that, but probably didn’t succeed. He knew he didn’t have much time left, and remembered taking a few pictures later on, once he’d got the child to finally smile at him and say a few words, including the name he had for him.

“ _Entonces,_ _¡_ _te acuerdas de mí!_ ” he marveled cheerfully, but not softly enough apparently, as the woman who’d spoken to him before made a remark that hardened his resolve to see things through.

“We know his parents must have spoken Spanish to him but we haven’t continued doing that. It would just be confusing for him at his age to hear two languages, and we want him to have a smooth transition towards adoption, I’m sure you understand.”

But Mando didn’t understand, and his voice took on an edge he couldn’t suppress.

“How would speaking Spanish complicate his adoption, exactly?”

The woman sighed, and he could see she meant well and wasn’t purposefully trying to aggravate him.

“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, and that’s just the way it is, I’m afraid.”

Mando guessed that was also why they called the kid William – the epitome of an Anglo name.

Just before he had to leave, he took the boy in his arms for a hug, and whispered one more promise in his ear, one he didn’t let anyone else hear.

“ _Sabes que yo nunca, nunca te voy a dejar, ¿cierto?_ _Te lo prometo._ ”

Despite his cold words to the DHS worker, it seemed he’d made a good impression. And his next step towards becoming a foster parent was to take place two weeks later – he’d be allowed to have the kid home for a weekend, but someone would be checking on them regularly and inspect his apartment beforehand. Mando spent an entire day cleaning it top to bottom and made sure he had stuff for the boy, including books – in Spanish, and in English, to hell with their logic. He didn’t regret the extra time spent, when he saw the worker looking through each nook and cranny of his small place. He only lied once, when she asked him if he kept guns in the house. He did, but he’d hidden them well – he hadn’t felt in danger for his life since he’d moved to Seattle, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The weapons were out of the way, and the kid wouldn’t be able to access them. He’d have to think of a better solution once their living arrangement was made more permanent.

The first night the boy spent in his home, he didn’t sleep either. He sat next to his small bed and watched him rest peacefully. His little chest rising up, and down, and up again. Mando couldn’t believe how much his life had changed. He had a job interview the following week, one he never thought he’d get. And he couldn’t stop thinking that he wouldn’t have had the nerve to try for it if it wasn’t for the sleeping boy next to him. He had given him courage. Meaning to his life. The fact that he now had to think of the child’s needs ahead of his own was a blessing – by doing right by the kid, he had to do right by himself as well. The child had to be his priority, which meant he couldn’t take needless risks anymore – someone was counting on him to stay alive.

From then on, things moved a lot quicker than they had previously. The job interview was a success, although he’d be on a training program for a few months, and his petition to become a foster parent was officially accepted – his first step towards adopting the boy was completed. He was in a daze when I.G. called him to announce it, and they celebrated with a flight over Puget Sound the following day. For someone who rarely managed to catch a break, that was several in a row, now. He could start having the kid stay at his place for more weekends, minus the DHS chaperone. They were still few and far between though, but Mando tried to focus on the positive – the boy seemed to be doing better, and spoke more and more: Spanish, and English.

I.G. asked him to meet him at City Hall one day, sounding very excited – which was saying a lot, for the stoic man.

“Do you remember I petitioned to have his name changed?” the lawyer asked.

Mando frowned, as he didn’t remember that – but maybe he’d told him and he just hadn’t been listening properly. The young man was spouting so much legal mumbo jumbo that he sometimes simply stopped paying attention.

“Sure,” he still replied.

“Well, it was granted, given that the boy has no birth certificate and no next of kin.”

“But wait…” said Mando, trying to slow him down, “We still don’t know his name.”

Cara had never found it, although she had been trying for a long time, now. Surely, they could still give it a few more weeks.

“You want him to be called ‘William’ for the rest of his life?”

“No,” he conceded, torn. “But the name his parents gave him…”

“The boy will never know his parents,” I.G. interrupted bluntly, “but he’ll know _you_. And you should be allowed to choose his name, as you are going to be the one raising him.”

Mando was struck dumb, his mind on overdrive. He needed more time! He couldn’t just decide on the spot something that was so important. And yet I.G. seemed to think so. He seemed to think it was his right. And to hear the lawyer say it out loud scared him more than all the official papers he had made him sign already. There was no going back from this.

“What if we find his name later on?” he hedged.

“Then you’ll be able to change it again, if you so wish. But the child needs a name, now. Today.”

He paused, trying to order his thoughts. He’d never consciously considered it. He just knew that ‘William’ wasn’t it.

“It has to mean something to _you_. Don’t try to think of the boy’s biological parents. Think of _you_ and what’s important to you.”

That wasn’t very helpful, he thought at first. And yet, a few minutes later, he had it. I.G. nodded, apparently alright with his choice, and that was it. He’d just named his son.

He caught his next break for Christmas – he was allowed to have the child for the holidays, a full two weeks, and was also permitted to travel with him and go over State lines. I.G. had warned him that the adoption process would be a mix of ups and downs, and he hadn’t been lying. The few days they were allowed to spend together were scarce, and his heart broke every time he was forced to hand the child back to the DHS. The toddler’s harrowing sobs when that happened were not helping either, and more than a few times he doubted his resolution – maybe he was hurting the kid with this constant back and forth. Maybe he should just let him go so that he could have stability in his life. Other times, he was tempted to run away with him again – to get in his car, and drive off.

But Din stayed true to his course. For he was Din now, and tried his best to think like him and not like Mando anymore. And on that cold December day, Din drove to Bolinas with his son.

It was strange to retake the 800 miles journey. He’d been tempted to fly there, but it actually proved cathartic to revisit the experience. This time, he could stay on the main roads, and he didn’t have to tirelessly look in his rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. He wasn’t sure if the boy remembered anything from that stressful ordeal, and perhaps it was better if he didn’t. But when he told him they were going to see Paz, he surprised him.

“Pancake Paz,” the now almost two-year-old said in his small but clear voice.

“You remember Paz’s pancakes?” he marveled incredulously.

And the child nodded, smiling.

“Well, you’ll have to ask him to make some more, then.”

“Cara will be there, too,” he added, “you only saw her once but she’s really nice.” And ‘really not into the whole babysitting thing’, she’d told him preemptively many times, as if he was going to suggest such as thing. But it didn’t hurt to let her think so, just to see the panicked look on her face.

They’d left Seattle early, but still arrived after the child’s usual bedtime, as Din had taken several breaks along the way – there was no rush after all. The toddler was still wide awake when he parked the car though, as if he could feel the reigning excitement. Christmas was supposed to be for children, and he was lucky to be able to share it with his boy. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was also happy to see his friend again. 

Paz welcomed them in, the boy sticking close to him but much less apprehensive than the first time he’d seen the imposing figure.

“Hi, little one,” he told him, kneeling down to be on the same eye level, which Din found quite thoughtful.

“Hi,” he got as a reply, little hands grabbing at Din’s jeans for courage.

“Do you remember me?” Paz asked, forcing himself to make his deep voice softer.

“Pancake Paz,” the boy enunciated clearly, his eyes fixed on the ground.

The guffaw was loud and pronounced and Din feared it would be too much for the toddler, but he actually surprised him, and emitted a giggle. His boy was a fighter, his character becoming more assured day after day.

“I’ll make you pancakes tomorrow, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” the child replied, not missing a beat.

“And I hear you have a name, now. A name your dad has refused to share with me,” a look in his direction, but Din shrugged – he had wanted to wait for the right time, and that time was now.

“Paz, meet Santiago Dawid. Santi for short.”

Paz stood up, his eyes serious, and Din hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.

“Dawid?” his mentor repeated.

“For his second name, yes.” Silence. “I wanted to check if it was okay with you first, but there was no time and…”

“No, it’s good,” Paz patting him on the back once, definitely not as hard as usual, “It’s good, kid, thank you. I’m… honored, really.”

Din didn’t think he’d ever seen Paz speechless, and he could tell he needed a minute to process this. He’d decided to name his boy after the city his parents had left behind, and the little brother his best friend had lost.

“You do know you’re gonna have to teach him to spell it out for a lot of people, right?” he remarked once he could focus again. The Polish name was indeed pronounced ‘Dahveet’, and that had made him hesitate a bit, but he didn’t regret his decision. Especially if it seemed to make such an impact on his old superior.

“You’ll just have to teach him, then.”

“Yes, I could teach him some Polish…” Paz agreed, pleased with the prospect.

“No swear words until he’s at least twelve,” Din asked, aware that it was probably a lost cause.

“Yeah, yeah…” he replied, offering his hand to Santi, and walking to the kitchen with him for a late snack. Food always worked.

Cara joined them the next morning, after breakfast – the promised pancakes that they managed to eat on the deck. Din _had_ missed the Californian sunshine, even if he’d made a new life for him and the kid in Seattle.

It was the first time Din saw Paz and Cara together, and he was tempted to ask them if there was anything they wanted to share with him but one, it wasn’t his business and two, they’d tell him if and when they felt like it. Still, their constant bickering was part fun, part scary to witness – they were too much alike to not make any situation explosive.

“You’re telling me you let him run after that Gideon dude without his gun?”

It was after dinner, now. They’d spent the afternoon on the beach and the boy had run and jumped everywhere, but he still wasn’t tired, and had asked for one more story – it was now the third time.

“ _¡_ _El último libro!”_ , Din told him, meaning it.

“ _Sí,_ dada,” promised Santi, although Din wasn’t sure _he_ meant it. He always finished with a story in Spanish, as it seemed to calm him more, but there was such excitement in the air that he wasn’t surprised he didn’t want to be sent to bed.

He tried focusing on the words he knew by heart and the little boy against his chest, and not listening to Cara and Paz’s argument, but it was proving difficult.

“He just run off after him! I’d been shot, remember?”

“But why didn’t he take his gun? He just needed to shoot him and be done with it!”

“He was already quite far, and there was no time,” Cara defended him.

Paz continued grumbling and complaining that they had both been stupid and careless, and Din left them to it, taking his (finally) sleepy child to bed.

When he rejoined them, they were laughing, and Din had the distinct impression that he was now the sole subject of their conversation.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting back down on the sofa and accepting the glass of whisky Paz handed him.

“I forgot I never told you that,” started Cara, still smirking, “but remember when you blacked out after you landed the helicopter?”

“Well, no, that’s the point,” replied Din.

“The hospital staff had to drag your ass out of the cockpit and you were pretty much dead weight, but they also had to figure out how to get rid of the helicopter.”

“Right, I never thought of that…” he admitted.

“Exactly, and they had to find a pilot, but no one wanted to fly in such weather, and that thing literally stayed on the hospital roof for two days.”

“If you had told him that after he woke up, he’d have probably offered to take it down for you that very day,” Paz noted, and they both started laughing again. Din rolled his eyes, but that was actually something Mando might have said, they were right.

“Let me guess, did he complain at any point that he didn’t like flying any helo smaller than a four-blade?”

“He said something like that, yeah,” confirmed Cara.

“This guy, he was top of his class during pilot training, and obviously he qualified for the fighter/bomber track and everybody assumed he was gonna do that… And he turned them down! He chose airlift/tanker. He could have flown an F-16, but he preferred big ass aircraft. Your first ‘fuck you’ to the brass, and not the last.”

“I just preferred flying support,” Mando shrugged in reply.

“They really hated you for that, and that made me laugh so much,” Paz recalled fondly.

“Well, I didn’t really like that clique, anyway. The West Point, Maverick-wannabes who thought they were better than everybody else.”

“Some of them _had_ seen Top Gun one too many times, that’s true. And they still fucking hate you, by the way,” Paz added.

“Well, fuck them,” Din answered, the whisky helping him admit his feelings. That had been the only time during his military career when he had been made feel inferior. Because he hadn’t gone to the right schools or met the right people and joined the Air Force late. And he’d been glad to eventually join Paz’s squadron. Paz had been the one suggesting he should switch from the Airborne in the first place.

“And how is it going at that new job of yours? You know that broke his heart, right?” asked Cara, looking at Paz who pretended to hold his chest.

“I would have gotten you back in if you wanted to, kid,” he told him, more serious.

“I know, Paz,” Din acknowledged, “and I _did_ think about it, you know. Honestly. But…”

“You have the boy, now,” Paz agreed, understanding.

“Yeah, and it’s nice just flying for the sake of flying, you know? I’d thought I’d apply for cargo pilot before Santi, and I’d started looking into that in Los Angeles. I wouldn’t have minded the long hours and strange schedules. But now… When I saw Delta was recruiting fly-by-wire pilots for their new fleet of Airbus at Sea-Tac, I just thought I’d try my chance.”

“And you got in,” Paz marveled.

“Yeah, I got in,” Din nodded, smiling genuinely, part of him still not quite believing his luck.

“And you’ll soon be paid a lot more than the both of us,” noted Cara.

“Not just yet,” he hedged, although it was true that he’d be able to live quite comfortably. Something that would definitely help with Santi’s adoption, I.G. had confirmed.

“Admit it, you just wanted to be a Captain again,” Paz pointed out, not entirely wrong.

“I’m not there yet, I still need to complete dozens of hours in the simulators, but I should have a better idea of my schedule next month. I’m qualifying for the three types of A330 models they have. I guess I won’t be flying the A380 just yet, but maybe one day…” Din pondered.

“You and big airplanes… Are you compensating for something?” asked Cara, and Paz laughed again.

After a cursory – and deserved – roll of his eyes, he let them talk about something else while he sipped his whisky. He’d be careful to refuse the next one, this time.

Din let his mind wander, marveling again that he’d soon be a full-fledged commercial pilot, working for one of the most respected US airline companies. He still couldn’t believe how understanding they had been, and how normal it had seemed to them to ask for a workable schedule. He’d basically be doing his dream job from 9 to 5. He couldn’t fly long hauls with Santi in his life, not yet at least, and that was fine – they needed pilots for intra-continental flights anyway. And yes, there was even a kindergarten right in the airport where his son would be welcomed. Healthcare? No problem. Paid holidays? You got it. Din had paved the way for the boy’s permanent arrival in his life, and he hoped that day would come soon.

The next day was Christmas Eve, and they spent a big chunk of it cooking and squabbling over which dishes Santi _absolutely needed_ to have for his first Christmas. They each took turns playing with the boy or reading to him – even Cara, although she refused to do the silly voices Paz had had no problem copying from Din, instantly becoming a hit as the big bad wolf – and they even managed to agree on which Disney film he’d be allowed to watch as a treat.

“Of course you chose _The Rescuers_. There’s a pilot in it, that albatross,” noted Paz.

“How do you know?” Din asked him with a smile, stumping him.

On Christmas Day, Cara received a text, and mentioned something about FaceTiming, whatever that was. Din had also been exchanging well-wishes with Kuiil and I.G. and hadn’t really paid attention to what she was saying.

“Video call?” she clarified, when she realized he was at a loss.

“With whom?” he frowned, Cara mumbling something about ‘useless engineers’.

“Omera and her kid, we’ve been texting. You could introduce Santi to them, they’d be thrilled.”

To say that Cara had dismayed him with her suggestion was putting it mildly.

“You’ve been texting Omera?” he uttered, his voice apparently taking on a tone unusual enough for Paz to stop whatever he had been doing in the next room to come and observe the scene, hiding a grin and not being very successful at it.

“Sure,” shrugged Cara as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “she’s nice. And since _you_ haven’t been sharing any new development with her…”

“What have you been saying?” Din pressed, thinking he still appeared nonchalant.

“Oh, you know… That you were no longer about to spend the rest of your life in jail. That you had a cool new name. That the kid was almost yours. That you were still desperately single and would soon earn 200K a year…” A beat. “Ok, the last two I didn’t share.”

“Funny,” Din deadpanned, hoping she actually hadn’t phrased the other ones exactly like that either.

“Din, come on! What’s the harm? It’s just one call and that kid of hers is desperate to see the boy. Surely you can grant them that for Christmas?”

She made it sound so reasonable. And yes, it would also be nice for Santi, he guessed. Maybe he remembered Winta. So he relented, not having understood that it was to take place _right this minute_.

It went about as well as he had expected, but he tried to answer all the questions Winta was throwing at him about Santi. “It’s such a great name!” the young girl had said, and that had pleased him at least. His son was a bit puzzled at the tablet screen showing people, as he had never experienced such a thing before – _you and me both, buddy,_ thought Din – but he seemed responsive to Winta’s voice, so maybe there was recollection there. Din remembered to introduce Paz after the man bumped his shoulder for the third time – the last thump quite hard – and he was free to discretely observe Omera when she was busy talking to Cara about some TV show or other they were apparently both watching.

Din started breathing normally again when it was over, after they’d made vague promises to do that again _soon_ – he tried not to shudder at the thought. Hoping he hadn’t made too much of an ass of himself, he pretexted that he needed to change the boy to leave the room. Honestly, he didn’t normally get so flustered, but Cara had _tricked_ him. It wasn’t fair.

“So are you going to visit them like you said?” Cara asked out of the blue after dinner, once Santi had been put to bed following eight different stories – six from Paz.

“Did I actually say that?” he wondered out loud, certain she was having him on.

“Well, you kind of implied it. Saying you lived only two hours away now in Seattle. And that it would be nice if the kids could see each other again.”

 _Oh_ , he had, hadn’t he.

“And you never told me she was so beautiful, you little shit,” added Paz.

“I told you she was,” Cara reminded him, as if their conversation couldn’t get any weirder.

“I didn’t see how this was relevant,” uttered Din.

“Yeah, right,” snorted Paz, exchanging a knowing look with Cara he didn’t see.

They fortunately started talking about other things after that, and Din breathed a sigh of relief.

The subject was mentioned again later that night, although he hadn’t been meant to know. He was on his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water when he heard Cara’s voice, stopping him in his tracks.

“You think it worked?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, but he’d be a fool not to take the bait,” replied Paz.

“That’s only a small detour on his way back, surely he’ll go see them now that he found out they’d be more than up for it.”

“You haven’t known him long enough, he’s a stubborn one. And completely oblivious to boot.”

“Your friend…” Cara commented.

“Yours, too.”

“Right,” she admitted. “Let’s go to bed and I’ll figure out something else for tomorrow. This operation is going to be a success.”

Din smiled as their voices disappeared behind a closed door.

The kid woke him up later still. He hadn’t done it for a long time, but then he hadn’t been spending that many nights with him in the past few months. He hoped the boy didn’t have nightmares at the home too often, as he didn’t want to imagine the different kind of welcome they received there. Din picked him up immediately, recognizing the tears for what they were – fright – and did his best to soothe him.

“ _Tranquilo, hijo, tranquilo,_ ” he whispered, then froze when he realized what he had said. He’d been using the word in his mind for a while, but never _out loud_. That it had come out in Spanish first didn’t surprise him. He decided to switch to English for now – one revelation was enough.

“Let’s go see if the stars are out, Santi,” he suggested, the boy only hiccupping at that point, but not ready to go back to sleep yet.

It was too cold to go on the deck, but the glass window in the pitch dark living room provided a nice enough spectacle. He pointed all the constellations he knew to the child, and they made plans. One day, when they’d be allowed to have more than weekends and holidays, he’d buy a house like this one. Not too close to the city center and facing the sea. Maybe in Sunset Hill where the view over Puget Sound was beautiful. Sure, the sky might not always be as clear as in California, but they’d have the beach, too. And a garden. And he’d take him on that plane, like he promised. In a year or two, once he was a bit older. And they’d be back here for the 4th of July next year, Paz had made him swear to it. They’d see the fireworks again. And maybe they’d go visit Winta and her mother soon, because it could be nice to become their friends. And even though no one knew the precise date, his birthday was coming up next month. So they’d choose a day, one they were permitted to spend together, and that would be it. Each year after that, they’d celebrate on that day. For ever and ever.

_But first, sleep, my son._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story to the end and sharing the journey with me. I hope it was a nice one and that it wasn't too out of your confort zone - I know AUs are not everybody's cup of tea, but they always have been mine! Thank you if you kudos, thank you if you comment, and thank you if you're just passing by - I love you all equally. Happy reading!


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